






COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 












































THE CHILDREN’S POETS 

ANALYSES AND APPRAISALS OF 
THE GREATEST ENGLISH AND AMERICAN 
POETS FOR CHILDREN 

FOR USE IN NORMAL SCHOOLS, LIBRARY 
SCHOOLS, AND HOMES 


BY 

WALTER BARNES, A.M. 

HEAD OF THE ENGLISH DEPARTMENT, 

STATE NORMAL SCHOOL, FAIRMONT, 

WEST VIRGINIA 

AUTHOR OF 

ENGLISH IN THE COUNTRY SCHOOL, 

THE NEW DEMOCRACY IN THE 
TEACHING OF ENGLISH, ETC. 

EDITOR OF 

PALGRAVE'S GOLDEN TREASURY, CHURCHILL’S 
THE CRISIS, ETC. 

COLLECTOR AND EDITOR OF 
TYPES OF CHILDREN'S LITERATURE 





Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York 

WORLD BOOK COMPANY 

1924 




WORLD BOOK COMPANY 



THE HOUSE OF APPLIED KNOWLEDGE 
Established 1905 by Caspar W. Hodgson 


ff?5c2 


Yonkers-on-Hudson, New York 
2126 Prairie Avenue, Chicago 


.ClBs 


There is need for what poetry can give, 
—the breadth of vision, the enrichment of 
the memory, the sweep of the imagination, 
the sympathetic understanding of nature 
and of our fellow creatures,—and a taste 
for poetry must be acquired in childhood. 
Yet the company of those who have writ¬ 
ten poetry acceptable to children is indeed 
small. The roll of these poets is made up 
by no convention of critics, no committee 
of professors of literature. The names in¬ 
scribed thereon are chosen by the children 
themselves, and it is Time that collects 
and records the votes. It is surely profit¬ 
able, then, for every one who is concerned 
with children’s reading to consider atten¬ 
tively the work of the writers who have 
been acclaimed as preeminently the chil¬ 
dren’s poets. The author and the pub¬ 
lishers trust that parents, teachers, and 
librarians will welcome The Children's 
Poets as a book that in its discussion of 
important though intangible values “Ap¬ 
plies the World’s Knowledge to the 
World’s Needs” 





PRINTED IN U.S.A. 

Mar 2? ’24 

©C1A777700 

•VU> | 









TO PHYLLIS 
MY WIFE 


* 


iii 














































■ I 




























































































































































PREFACE 


The Children s Poets is an attempt to analyze the qualities and 
to apprai^ the contributions of the most important of the children s 
poets, and, so far as the author knows, is the first book in this field. 
It may be that children’s poetry has been thought not to be worth 
study or not to require study. But in this age, when we are attempt¬ 
ing to utilize to the full the emotional and artistic elements in lit¬ 
erature, and especially in poetry, for the education of children, 
we cannot afford to overlook the great value in a knowledge and 
appreciation of the body of children’s poetry. Children’s poets dif¬ 
fer among themselves quite as much as poets for adults: some are 
of the first class, others of the fourth or fifth class; some rank high 
in one department, low in others; some possess certain qualities 
and emphasize certain aspects of life; and all are deserving of study, 
especially by those who train and educate children. 

A word as to the subject matter of this book. I have discussed 
in full those who seem to me to be the most important and signifi¬ 
cant poets who have written for children, and have grouped in the 
Bibliography brief analyses of those who may be termed the minor 
poets. Some of the poets discussed briefly may be finer poets than 
some of those discussed at length. But to give an idea of the range 
and diversity of children’s poetry, particular attention was devoted 
to those who seemed more representative, more typical, those who 
enlarged the field of children’s poetry or introduced new notes. 

In order that the book may be of greater service as a compendium 
of poetry for children and may present a sufficient amount of illus¬ 
trative material, a group of additional poems is appended to frost 
of the chapters. For some of the poets considered, however, copy¬ 
right restrictions have made it impossible to present more than a 
very limited number of poems. 

The Childrens Poets is really a series of essays, each essay deal¬ 
ing with one author,—in a single instance, with two authors who 
seem to belong together. Each chapter is therefore a separate unit, 
yet an integral part of a cycle, to be studied separately and in any 
order, yet to be reread in the light of the other chapters. This 


vi Preface 

plan has allowed me greater freedom, in that I could discuss each 
poet in the manner most appropriate to his work, could follow where 
he led, and could dispense with rigid formulas. Biographical mat¬ 
ter has been used sparingly, and, wherever possible, this has been 
wrought into the chapter itself rather than dealt with separately 
and formally. 

I hope the somewhat light and personal style of writing will not 
seem inappropriate. In a subject such as this, even in a book in¬ 
tended for serious studv, I have wished to avoid heaviness and 
formality. The book has cost a great deal of earnest labor, but I 
have endeavored to remove every mark of the chisel from the 
statues of the children’s poets. 

The Children s Poets has been written for the general reader, for 
parents, for librarians, and specifically for students in normal 
schools and colleges preparing to teach. 

The courtesy of a number of publishing houses in allowing the 
reprinting of copyright material is hereby acknowledged: Henry 
Holt and Company have been most generous in their permission 
to quote from the works of Walter de la Mare; Houghton Mifflin 
Company have kindly allowed me to use the poems of Lucy Lar- 
com, Celia Thaxter, and Frank Dempster Sherman; Little, Brown 
and Company have given permission to reprint the poems of 
Laura Elizabeth Richards; to Charles Scribner’s Sons I am indebted 
for the poems of Eugene Field, and to The Bobbs Merrill Company 
for those of James Whitcomb Riley. 

Mr. Orton Low of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, has given me 
valuable advice and criticism. Miss Effie Louise Power, of the 
Pittsburgh Carnegie Library, was of assistance in the work of com¬ 
piling the bibliographies. 

Walter Barnes 

Fairmont, West Virginia 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. Children’s Poetry and Children’s Poets .... 1 

II. Mother Goose.11 

III. Ann and Jane Taylor.T9 

v IV. Robert Louis Stevenson..68 

V. William Blake.86 

VI. Christina Rossetti •.163 

J VII. Walter de la Mare.117 

VIII. Edward Lear.183 

IX. Lewis Carroll.186 

X. Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley ... 176 

XI. Frank Dempster Sherman.167 

XII. Laura Elizabeth Richards. 205 

XIII. Lucy Larcom. 220 

XIV. Celia Thaxter . 23i 

24,1 

Bibliography. 

A. Anthologies of Children’s Poetry. 241 

B. Some Other Children’s Poets. 253 

259 


Index . 






















THE CHILDREN’S POETS 


CHAPTER ONE 

Children’s Poetry and Children’s Poets 

Poetry for children is a special kind of poetry, as distinc¬ 
tive as pastorals, as sonnets, as humorous verse. It is neither 
higher nor lower than other forms of poetry. It is merely 
different. 

First of all, it is poetry, to be considered as poetry; sec¬ 
ondly, it is poetry written specifically for children. 

In attempting to analyze children’s poetry, therefore, our 
first task is to pass judgment upon it as poetry. If it ranks 
high in this test, it is next to be considered as poetry specifi¬ 
cally for children; and, if it does not fail of this necessary 
qualification, it may then be studied for its qualities, its 
themes, and its values. 

Not all poets are children’s poets, but all poets have certain 
characteristics which have a direct bearing on the creation 
of children’s verse. The temperament of a poet strikinglyj 
resembles that of a child. In imagination, intuition, emo¬ 
tional intensity, curiosity and wonder, obedience to impulse 
and the spirit of play, in romanticism and idealism, poets 
and children are akin. The poet preserves, more than others, 
the childlike attitude towards life—which, obviously, means 
that there is such an affinity between poets and children that 
poets understand and appreciate children and are easily 
and frequently impelled to write of them and for them. 

As all poets, moreover, are sensitive to beauty and romance, 
and as children and childhood are unquestionably full of a 

mysterious charm and an elusive suggestiveness—are, in 

i 

/ 

/ 

/ 


2 


The Children's Poets 


short, poetic—certain poets are quite naturally inspired to • 
sing of childhood, its emotions and experiences, its joys and 
aspirations. Most men and women look back on their early 
life with fondness and indulge in reminiscences of their youth, 
living over the scenes and incidents of childhood, and think¬ 
ing somewhat regretfully of the purity, the optimism, and 
the faith of their past. Many of us, like Charles Lamb, cre¬ 
ate out of our memories images of ourselves as we were in 
days gone by, and see, trotting along beside us in country 
lanes or sitting near us in the solitude of our studies, the 
little boys and girls we once were—probably much nicer boys 
and girls than we ever were. And if ordinary men and 
women with practical views of life are thus moved to re-create 
their early existence, we may expect certain poets, more 
richly gifted, more perceptive of what is beautiful and fine, 
to discover in childhood the themes of their songs. 

It is, of course, not a question of a children’s poet being 
greater or less than other poets; he must have the technical 
power and ability of a true poet, supplemented by such par¬ 
ticular powers as are possessed by the specialist in any other 
department of poetry, such as balladry, nature poetry, or 
society verse. 

As I point out more than once in the following pages, it is 
not sufficient that a would-be children’s poet should love chil¬ 
dren. He may love them with adoration and descant mov¬ 
ingly on the glory and beauty of childhood, and yet fail 
utterly as a children’s poet. There must be added to love 
a perfect understanding, a power to enter into the child’s 
feelings and to see life from his standpoint. Many of us 
profess to understand boys and girls and appreciate their 
thoughts and instincts; but few of us really succeed in es¬ 
caping from the dark shadow of our own maturity. The 


3 


Children’s Poetry and Childrens Poets 

children’s poet must project himself, his spirit must take up 
its abode for the time being in some child’s heart; then, when 
he returns to us with our adult preoccupations, he may tell 
us what a child is, how he feels, fancies, hopes, fears, bears 
himself. 

There is no other way to the citadel whereiil the child en¬ 
trenches himself. “Except ye become as little children ye 
cannot enter.” Paedology, despite its patiently won lore, 
has not pierced to the secret; the men of science have not 
found it. Genius, and genius of the unique kind which none 
but a few poets possess, is the only “Open, sesame.” This 
is the reason why children’s poets are so rare. To hav£ the 
nature of a child and the intelligence and poise of an artist, 
to be possessed by the urge of youth and to possess the 
clarity of experience—that is the combination which pro¬ 
duces the children’s poet. 

Although nearly all poets, as we have seen, are predis¬ 
posed to write poetry dealing with childhood, some poets are 
better fitted by nature^fhan others for writing poetry for 
children. But in any case there must be some immediate 
incentive, some direct inspiration, some experience or occur¬ 
rence or situation, some revelation to call forth the poem. 
That experience which makes most of us interested in chil¬ 
dren, which enkindles within our hearts a love for children 
and causes us to call back most clearly the memories of our 
own youth, is fatherhood or motherhood. Parental love has 
always been the inspiration of sacrifice and service; it awak¬ 
ens the strongest and holiest feelings. Nothing makes us so 
much interested in children as having children of our own. 

This being so, one would imagine that all children’s poets 
are parents. But when we call the roll of those who have 
written verse for children, we are struck by the fact that only 


4 


The Children's Poets 


a few of them—and these not the greatest—had children of 
their own. The supreme lyric poets for children, Blake, 
Stevenson, Christina Rossetti; the founders of the school of 
moral poetry, Jane and Ann Taylor; the best dialect poet, 
James Whitcomb Riley; the two greatest nonsense poets, Lear 
and Carroll;*all these were childless when they wrote their 
poetry for children. In nearly every instance, as is pointed 
out elsewhere in this book, these poets were inspired to write 
verse for children by contact and friendship with other 
people’s children. 

I have amused myself at times by bringing this anomaly to 
the attention of my students. Some of these would have it 
that fathers and mothers have been too busily employed in 
taking care of their children to write poetry for them. Others 
have advanced the theory that having real offspring dispels 
all the glamor and mystery of childhood; that parents 
are too close to their subject to be in the proper mood for 
poetry. There is truth in this. Undoubtedly poets must be 
somewhat detached from the material and the events of their 
poetry. Sometimes, it would seem, poets deliberately ignore 
the concrete, objective themes that lie close at hand, turning 
their eyes inward in introspection or gazing outward into the 
distance. Wordsworth has spoken of this: 

Most sweet it is with unuplifted eyes 

To pace the ground, if path be there or none, 

While a fair region round the traveler lies 
Which he forbears again to look upon; 

Pleased rather with some soft ideal scene, 

The work of Fancy, or some happy tone 
Of meditation. 

But the true explanation of this puzzle lies, I think, in a 
profound observation made many years ago by John Keble. 


Children's Poetry and Children's Poets b 

Poetry, according to this poet and critic, is a vent for over¬ 
charged feelings which have not found their natural outlet 
through any of the customary channels of life and action. 
Childless poets, surcharged with parental affection (by reason 
of memories of their own youth, reinforced perhaps by the 
accidental companionship of some living child), have vented . 
their pent-up emotions in the creation of poetry for children. 

Ne edless to sav . children’s poetry idealizes childhood. f» 
There is a wistfulness in much of it, a lambent radiance over 
it. All the dross of youth is burned away; the selfishness 
and animalism of children are ignored; their faults are for¬ 
gotten and their virtues magnified. But is not this ideal¬ 
ization precisely what we expect and desire and admire 
in all poetry? We should not criticize children’s poetry for 
presenting images of child life which, reason reminds us, 
are too delicate and refined. Reason is not to be permitted to 
usurp the chief place when we are seated at a poetic banquet. 
We should practice what Coleridge calls “that willing sus¬ 
pension of disbelief which constitutes poetic faith.” It is 
one of the missions of poetry to set up before us the ideals 
of life, and it is one of the missions of children’s poetry to 
hang before the eyes of children portraits of themselves as 
they may be, pictures of the child world as it would be if all 
children were fine-fibered and good and amiable. A child’s 
reach, too, must exceed his grasp. 

I hope I am not suggesting that children’s poets are all * 
cast in the same mold. Nothing could be farther from the 
truth. Robert Louis Stevenson’s A Child's Garden of Verses , 
for example, is as distinct from Christina Rossetti’s Sing- 
Song as Treasure Island is from Goblin Market. Isaac 
Watts of the Divine and Moral Songs for the Use of Chil¬ 
dren is the Isaac Watts who wrote Joy to the World, When I 





The Children's Poets 


0 

Survey the Wondrous Cross , and many other beautiful 
hymns; he does not alter his nature when he writes for 
children. Indeed, this is one of the secrets of the craft; the „ 
children’s poet must express his own personality. Any at¬ 
tempt to posture is an imposture. There must be no attitu¬ 
dinizing, no condescension, no baby talk or pretense. And 
there need be none, since there are many paths to the child’s 
heart and many methods of appeal, and there remains only 
the one prime law for each bard of childhood—to reveal 
himself in his own way. 

It is not difficult to generalize concerning the themes suit¬ 
able for children’s poetry. From the very fact that it is for 
children, certain aspects of life interesting to older people 
must be eliminated. The mysteries of mortal existence, 
the baffling tragedies of humanity, the subjective, the philo¬ 
sophical, the psychological—much of that which makes up the 
power and the glory of poetry for men and women is unsuit¬ 
able for children. On the other hand, children’s poetry 
will include many aspects of life to which grown-ups pay 
scant attention: sports and toys, animals and the simpler 
phases of nature, nonsense, home life, lullabies, scenes and 
stories of youthful experience,—all the poetic interests of 
childhood. And even when the themes of the two species 
of poetry happen to be identical, as in nature poetry, that 
for children must, obviously, be the more concrete and 
objective in treatment and the more closely circumscribed. 

It must not be “juvenilized,” however; the simpler aspects 
must be selected, consciously or unconsciously, then developed 
sincerely and adequately, and in a more or less simple 
style, because the themes demand that kind of handling. 

Nor does the simple style imply a denatured diction, a 
succession of easy, forceless monosyllables, where “ten low 


Children's Poetry and Children s Poets 7 

words oft creep in one dull line.” A child will climb over 
a pretty tall word if only his pleasure in the poem or story 
have set him running at full speed. The style should not 
be extremely figurative, yet it should not be too jejunely 
literal. The words should be full of color and warmth, 
of suggestiveness, of wide connotativeness—essentially dif¬ 
ferent from the more or less matter-of-factness of speech. 
Metaphors and personification seem to be the favorite figures 
in children’s poetry, though, of course, a simile is occa¬ 
sionally employed. Generally speaking, the poems should 
be brief, and the rhymes and structure simple. The lines 
should be short, and the rhymes come close together. Ono¬ 
matopoeia and alliterative effects are as desirable here as 
in other poetry, and the singing quality of the verse should 
be even more pronounced. Usually the rhythm is very 
regular and the accents emphatic; the recent attempt to write 
vers litre for children is a manifest failure, since the steady 
and almost invariable pulsation of the beats in the tempo is 
an inseparable attribute of the verse that children love. 

Here again I pause to point out that I am not attempting 
to pass laws to regulate the construction of verse for chil¬ 
dren. Doubtless a great creative poet could set at naught 
all the generalizations here made; but so far as I can deter¬ 
mine, these generalizations are firmly grounded on the prac¬ 
tice of the most successful children’s poets. 

Another word in this connection. Although the poets dis¬ 
cussed in the following chapters include no one who has not 
written specifically for children, I am far from believing 
that their works should constitute children’s sole poetic nour¬ 
ishment. Any anthology of children’s verse will contain 
the poems of many writers not mentioned in these pages: 
Shakespeare, Wordsworth, Scott, Keats, Shelley, Coleridge, 


8 


The Children's Poets 


Byron, Tennyson, Macaulay, Kipling, Longfellow, and 
Whittier. Many splendid poets, especially of the last cen¬ 
tury, have, in a mood of playfulness or inspired by the Muse 
of Childhood, written first-rate poems for little folks, though 
usually but a few of them; and by virtue of the selection of 
suitable themes and the simplicity, sincerity, and objectiv¬ 
ity of their style, many other poets have written verses which, 
although intended for grown-ups, have been appropriated 
by children for their own. 

I would not advise parents and teachers to attempt the 
poetical education of their children solely by means of 
poems designed specifically for children. The older child 
and the little child, if poetry-minded, should have free en¬ 
trance to the fields of more inspiring, more invigorating 
verse, written not especially for the child but for the child¬ 
like and the child-hearted, whether young or old in years. 
It is good for a child to stand on tiptoe now and then. 

Yet at the same time, I would enter a strong protest 
against the theories of those self-complacent literary folk 
who would banish the children’s poets from the nursery 
and the schoolroom. When Miss Agnes Repplier, for ex¬ 
ample, in her essay on The Children s Poets (Essays in Idle¬ 
ness ), points out that she, in common with Andrew Lang 
and Coleridge and Rossetti and others of the bookish tribe, 
scorned those poets who wrote for children, preferring Byron 
and Scott, it is not amiss to remind her that most children 
are not embryo poets and essayists with an immediate and 
intuitive love of the great classics, with latent literary genius 
awaiting only the appearance of Homer and Shakespeare to 
call it to a realization of its powers. Place the average little 
child—and the term “average child” covers more than nine 
tenths of all children in a library with the children’s poets 



Children's Poetry and Children s Poets 

and the greatest of poets for adults, and he will inevitably 
turn to Stevenson, to Blake, to Christina Rossetti, to Lear and 
Carroll and Mother Goose. Miss Repplier makes the same 
blunder that the devotees of the classic cult have always made 
in their pronouncements as to what is good juvenile reading 
—the blunder of attributing to children the unusual interests 
and discriminating tastes and artistic temperament which 
distinguished themselves as children. Let us keep it in mind 
that we must make provision not only for the few children 
who are blessed with the five poetical talents but also—and 
chiefly—for the many children who have only one or two. 

There is, of course, a danger of going to the other extreme, 
the danger of feeding children upon the infantile in poetry. 
Primary teachers are all too likely to catch up fatuous and 
insipid bits of rubbishy doggerel out of the primary journals 
and other carry-alls, poems that are babyish and insincere, 
and use these as a means of introducing children to the 
delights of verse. One can see this going on in almost any 
kindergarten or primary grade, just as one hears the silly 
little songs about dolls and flowers and the pleasures of 
attending school, instead of the splendid folk songs and 
plantation melodies and really musical airs available for 
children. Teachers are apt to ignore the first and fun¬ 
damental principle of children’s poetry: that it be authentic 
poetry, not a cheap imitation. 

If the poetry written for children is sincere and true, if it 
is written with beautiful art and not manufactured according 
to a recipe, it performs a vital service in the cultural and 
emotional education of the child. I think I am safe in saying 
that the poets analyzed in the essays that follow are real 
artists, not all great artists, perhaps, but fine, earnest, and 
intelligent ones. They loved and understood boys and girls 


10 


The Children's Poets 


and their “tricks and manners,” and they wrote verse that has 
earned for them the gratitude and affection of multitudes of 
little folks. Taken all together, they provide a bounteous 
and varied feast of good things: beauty of sound and picture 
and thought, wisdom and inspiration, gayety and seriousness, 
and generous emotions. And if occasionally they seem to 
older folks somewhat too obvious and childish, let us remind 
ourselves of what the little elf-man replied when some one 
professed astonishment at his diminutive stature— 

“I’m just as big for me,” he said, 

“As you are big for you!” 


CHAPTER TWO 


Mother Goose 

No list of children’s poets is complete without the name of 
Mother Goose. The Mother Goose jingles, nursery rhymes, 
children’s nonsense verses,—call them what you will,—as 
they come first to the children’s attention, remain first in 
their affections. They are hallowed by the associations of 
generations of children, they are fragrant with the incense 
of childish pleasure and love. Their charm never loses its 
power nor their beauty its luster. The stream never runs 
dry, though its sparkling waters have refreshed generations 
of children; the magic vial never loses its virtue, however 
long exposed to the common air; the Fortunatus purse re¬ 
mains filled with gold, however often it has supplied the 
needs of spendthrift youth. 

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed 
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu. 

What is the secret of the perennial charm of these child¬ 
hood jingles? They are as beautiful to little children of 
today as they were to little children of a hundred years ago. 
Nothing can take their place: there are no substitutes. 

“Why don’t you get some new toys?” says the modern 
mother to the toy-dealer. “You are selling the very same 
kind I had when I was a little girl.” 

“Ah, madam,” replies the wise old toy-dealer, “what need 
of new toys, when we have new children all the time?” 

Who was the author of those immortal rhymes? We tell 
ourselves very often that we need not concern ourselves about 

an author if we have the results of his genius. But we can- 

11 


12 


The Children's Poets 


not satisfy ourselves with an abstraction. Our desire to 
visualize, to account for, will not allow us to be satisfied with 
the beauty of the product until we have tried to find out some¬ 
thing about the producer. In this case, the question is: Who 
was Mother Goose? It is a question which seems to call 
for detailed discussion. 

The name ‘Mother Goose’ seems to have originated in 
France and is an instance of the Gallic tendency to personify 
birds and beasts in fairy lore and elsewhere. It was current 
in France at an early date. A group of fanciful tales which 
appeared in French literature were alluded to in a French 
poem of 1650 as tales of la mere UOye. Collin de Plancy 
says the French have a proverbial saying that any incredible 
tale belongs to the time when Queen Bertha spun and, Queen 
Bertha having been cursed with a foot like a goose, they call 
such a tale a Queen Goose or Mother Goose story. In the 
year 1697, Charles Perrault published eight of these stories 
under the title Contes de ma Mere VO ye (Tales of my Mother 
Goose). The Perrault stories—stories, not rhymes—were 
translated into English by Robert Sambur and published at 
London in the year 1729. In the course of time, they were 
republished, as Tales of Mother Goose , by John Newberry 
at his house in St. Paul’s Churchyard and, under the New¬ 
berry imprint, attained a great success. The date of New¬ 
berry’s first edition of these tales is uncertain, but the late 
Charles Welsh, one of the successors as well as the his¬ 
torian of the Newberry publishing house, shows that the 
seventh edition was printed May 16, 1777, and the eighth in 
the year 1780. Newberry was a famous publisher of chil¬ 
dren’s books, and many and quaint are the titles shown in his 
advertisements. Finally, he decided to publish a book of 
children’s favorite nursery rhymes; and the Mother Goose 


Mother Goose 


13 


tales having been successful, it was, as Mr. Welsh says, quite 
in accordance with Newberry’s practice to utilize the name 
Mother Goose for his melodies of the nursery. 

The first edition of Newberry’s Mother Goose’s Melody , 
or Sonnets for the Cradle was prepared prior to 1767. There 
is evidence that Oliver Goldsmith wrote the Preface and the 
prose maxims, or footnotes, which accompany the verses. 
So far as can be proved, the first Newberry edition was the 
first collection of nursery rhymes ever made and published 
under the title of Mother Goose. 

The Newberry edition was not long in crossing the Atlan¬ 
tic. Isaiah Thomas reprinted it at Worcester, Massachu¬ 
setts, about 1785, reproducing it with the same pagination 
and many of the same illustrations. In 1824-25, Munroe 
and Francis reprinted it at Boston, but the Munroe and 
Francis edition differed in many details from its predeces¬ 
sors. It is accessible to all students of the subject in the 
facsimile of the 1833 edition, published by Lee and Shepard 
in 1905, for which the Reverend Edward Everett Hale wrote 
the introduction. This is the Boston Mother Goose upon 
which Boston grew up and waxed literary. But in consider¬ 
ing the origin of the name Mother Goose it is necessary for 
us to examine a curious set of circumstances, the result of 
which seems to offer a most remarkable literary coincidence. 

In the early years of the eighteenth century there lived in 
Boston a well-known family of the name of Goose. This 
family is said to have come from England. The name ap¬ 
pears in the Boston records, and the graves of certain mem¬ 
bers of the family are to be found in the Old Granary Bury¬ 
ing Ground there. From England, also, came a certain 
Thomas Fleet. Fleet was a publisher and printer, and he set 
up his shop at Boston, in Pudding Lane, now Devonshire 


14 


The Children s Poets 


Street. He married Elizabeth Goose of that city, June 8, 
1715, the ceremony being performed by no less a person 
than the celebrated Cotton Mather. So much is fact. 
Legend continues the story and relates that in the year 1719 
(this was ten years before the Perrault stories were trans¬ 
lated into English by Sambur, and probably some fifty years 
before the first Newberry collection) Fleet published a book 
called Mother-Goose s Melodies at his shop in Pudding Lane, 
and that either his wife or his mother-in-law became con¬ 
nected in the public mind with the authorship thereof. No 
copy of this early edition of Mother Goose appears to be 
extant. If such a book really appeared, it is probable enough 
that Dame Goose of Boston, with a lively and accurate mem¬ 
ory of the English nursery jingles of her childhood, should 
have supplied the rhymed copy for it; but whether or not 
her name determined the title Mother Goose would always 
appear to be a moot question. Many persons scout the idea 
that Thomas Fleet ever published a book of this description 
at all. Prideaux, the English scholar, who was very much 
interested in the origin of Mother Goose, wrote to the late 
Professor Francis James Child of Harvard University, ask¬ 
ing him if in his researches he had come upon any facts that 
would throw light upon the subject. To this Professor Child 
replied that a copy of an early Boston edition published in 
1719 by Thomas Fleet of Pudding Lane was said to have 
been discovered in an antiquarian library and that he had 
meant to reprint it. The book in the antiquarian library— 
the American Antiquarian Library at Worcester, Massachu¬ 
setts—disappeared. It may have been lost in transit or 
misplaced. No sooner was it lost, however, than doubts 
concerning it arose, and certain persons came to the con¬ 
clusion that it had never existed and that the book to which 


Mother Goose 


15 


Professor Child had reference must have been of a later date, 
a copy, in fact, of the Thomas edition published at Worces¬ 
ter, Massachusetts, in 1785, or of the Munroe and Francis 
edition, which was still well known and fairly common. 
Professor Child was a sound scholar; but he may have been 
mistaken in this matter, more especially as his knowledge of 
the reputed Fleet edition seems to have been obtained at 
second hand. The question, however, is one that cannot be 
decided until a copy of the 1719 edition comes to light or 
some contemporary reference to it is unearthed. Personally, 
I do not believe such a book was ever published. 

America, at any rate, may take some pride in her contribu¬ 
tion to the fame of Mother Goose. The name originated in 
France and was filched by Newberry; but it is America that 
has preserved the name as applied to the nursery poet, not 
because of the disputed Boston edition of 1719, but largely 
because the early editions of Munroe and Francis used the 
name and so established it for all time in this country. The 
name, in fact, may be said to belong to us. Neither Halli- 
well nor Lang nor other English editors and students retained 
it; in England, it is not popular at all. 

So much for the name; now for the verses. Most of the 
nursery jingles that we call Mother Goose melodies came 
from England. The first collection of which there is any 
record was Newberry’s, but Newberry was not the author, and 
Oliver Goldsmith, although he may have edited the work and 
altered and improved some of the jingles, was not the 
author. As a matter of fact, these nursery jingles are not 
the product of any one person. They go back to a day when 
there was no established poetic mint, when any one could 
manufacture gold and silver coins and “pass them current, 
t00 ”—providing they were made of sterling metal. The 


16 


The Children's Poets 


Mother Goose rhymes are popular poetry, that is, poetry of 
the people. They originated with the people and were 
handed down by them. No professional poet, no literary 
artist seems to have had a hand in the making of them. Let 
us take a specific example, to illustrate their creation. Old 
King Cole will serve our purpose. 

King Cole was a legendary king of England. He is sup¬ 
posed to have reigned in the third century A. D. Robert of 
Gloucester and Geoffrey of Monmouth both speak of this 
merry monarch of merry England. The earliest version of 
the nursery rhyme, Old King Cole , that has been preserved 
belongs to the, seventeenth century. It is as follows: 

Good King Cole 

He called for his bowl 

And he called for fiddlers three; 

And then was fiddle fiddle 
And twice fiddle fiddle, 

For ’twas my lady’s birthday; 

And therefore we keep holiday 
And come to be merry. 

Geoffrey of Monmouth wrote his British History in the 
twelfth century. Robert of Gloucester wrote his Chronicle 
in the thirteenth century. The latter was in verse, but in 
the halting, unrhythmic verse of the period, as different from 
the tripping, rhythmic verses of Mother Goose as the uncer¬ 
tain steps of a blind man are from the marked and rapid 
measure of a country dance. From the time of Robert and 
Geoffrey to the seventeenth century, so far as we know, there 
is no reference to King Cole in print. What became of him 
in the meanwhile? 

Is it not unthinkable that some scholar, delving into these 
“chronicles of wasted time,” should have had the impulse— 


Mother Goose 


17 


or the ability—to strike off a musical jingle based on Geoff¬ 
rey’s or Robert’s account of King Cole? It is precisely 
what a scholar would not do. And is it not just as un¬ 
thinkable that some light-hearted jingler would have turned 
for inspiration to the stilted old narratives of the two his¬ 
torians? It is precisely what a jingler would not do. 
Surely the only reasonable view is that King Cole, whether 
real or legendary, lived in the oral traditions of the people 
of England from the third century till the twelfth and the 
thirteenth; that the two chroniclers, who, as we know, were 
keen to collect all the bits of the driftwood of tradition 
that had floated down the scanty stream of history, built 
a little historical house for him to inhabit; and that either 
before or after the twelfth or the thirteenth century some 
jingle-maker had sung half a dozen lines about the 
merry old king and his fiddlers, basing his verse on the 
tradition. 

It is most likely that the rhyme was in existence at the 
time when the histories were written and that the his¬ 
tories borrowed from the rhyme, rather than the rhyme from 
the histories—either that, or both were based on the tradi¬ 
tion. Geoffrey says, for example, that the daughter of King 
Cole was a musician. Perhaps this belief was traditional 
down to the twelfth century; perhaps Geoffrey considered 
that if King Cole liked music—and the fiddling is proof of 
that—his daughter would naturally be musical also, and 
gravely recorded the assumption in his history. However 
that may be, King Cole, the legendary king of England, re¬ 
mained buried in the solemn tome-tombs of Geoffrey and 
Robert until exhumed by modern scholars, while Old King 
Cole, the jovial monarch, lived on in the elysium of the pop¬ 
ular jingle, and enjoyed his music, his pipe (which must have 


18 


The Children’s Poets 


been added to bis joys after the discovery of America) and 
his potations—“double-lived in regions new.” 

Such, I believe, is the history of the nursery rhyme, Old 
King Cole. And such is the history of many of the other 
nursery rhymes. A clever wag with a "taste for jingles gets 
off a bit of doggerel on some current theme or contemporary 
person or unusual situation. It is barbed with the nonsense 
and the rhythm that carries it true and far and sends it deep 
into the memory. That is, the initial verse is the spontan¬ 
eous creation of some one with wit and with power to jingle 
off his nonsense,—in other words, a folk-artist. The jingle 
is repeated from one generation to another, and when those 
who know it move to other parts of the country they carry 
the jingle with them. As time goes on, the jingle is altered 
and improved; the crudities in the first version are refined 
away, the rhythm becomes more accurate: in short, the pas¬ 
sage of time wears the stone round and smooth and shapely. 
Meanwhile, the inferior jingles are lost. Time, the great 
winnower, blows away the chaff. In the course of years, it 
may be, the significance of the original idea even is lost, and 
the jingle becomes a mere combination of pleasant sounds 
and sprightly movement, remembered and treasured solely 
because of its sound. 

And all this took place before the jingle was committed to 
print! Perhaps Oliver Goldsmith did have a hand in the 
final shaping of some of the Mother Goose poems, hut if 
he did it was as an editor, not as a creator. The Mother 
Goose jingles are most certainly popular in their origin, 
and were, for the most part, transmitted orally until about 
the middle of the eighteenth century. 

Of course, not all the Mother Goose jingles are historical. 
Some of them are metrical riddles; some are motion and 


Mother Goose 


19 


gesture songs; some are bits of popular ballads; some are 
counting-out jingles; some are proverbs; some are mere 
devices to aid children to learn their a b c’s, their numbers, 
the names of the months, and so forth; and some are parodies 
or satires concealed under the mask of sheer nonsense. 
Whatever the occasion or the cause that called them into 
being, they have lived by the mere virtue of their fun and 
sound, they have been repeated because the repetition of 
them gives pleasure alike to the speaker and to the listener. 

As I have said, they were, for the most part, transmitted 
orally until about the middle of the eighteenth century. 
But we catch glimpses of some of them in the books of the 
seventeenth century or even earlier. For example, in Thomas 
Preston’s play, Camhyses, which was licensed in 1569, we 
find these words: 

They be at hand Sir with stick and fidle; 

They can play a new daunce called Hey-didle-didle. 

These lines may be taken as evidence that some version of 
our Hey diddle diddle was in existence at that time. 
In Beaumont and Fletcher’s Bonduca, written before 1619, 
one of the characters is asked to “sing a song of sixpence.” 
In the Book of Merry Riddles (1629) there is a jingle be¬ 
ginning Little Boy Bunting, which certainly suggests our 
Bye, Baby Bunting (the word bunting being an old term 
of endearment). The stanza, Thirty days hath September, 
April, June, and November, etc,, is as old as 1570, being 
found in Grafton’s Chronicle. According to Halliwell, 
Three Blind Mice is to be found in a song book printed in 
1609. There are dozens of allusions to the nursery songs, 
dozens of fragments of them scattered throughout the books 
of this period. These allusions and fragments go to show 


20 


The Children's Poets 


that the jingles are very old and were popular as far back as 
we have any knowledge of them. Undoubtedly they ran 
along in the underground stream of oral and traditional song, 
now and then rising to the surface. In my own childhood I 
heard many nursery jingles that have never appeared in any 
collection—that is, so far as I know, and I have made diligent 
search. We children did not make them up; apparently they 
had been handed down orally for a long, long time. 

There is strong probability that not a few nursery rhymes 
were built up by accretion. Some one improvised a jingle 
on a certain subject; some one else added a stanza, and some 
one else added another, and so on, until it became a fairly 
long poem. Mother Hubbard looks like that kind of cre¬ 
ation; so does London Bridge; so does Gay go up and gay 
go down. Students of the popular ballad put forward this 
theory of creation by accretion; I believe it may be as rea¬ 
sonably applied to nursery jingles, which are essentially 
popular. This theory accounts for so many jingles beginning 
Little Tommy Tucker, Little Jack Horner, and so forth. Of 
course, in the case of these jingles we have separate poems; 
but imitation has plainly been at work. 

Some of the ditties seem to have originated in little scenes 
and incidents of child life. Perhaps some mother, while 
rocking her baby to sleep, saw a mouse run up the tall clock 
and scamper down again when frightened by the striking of 
the bell, and immediately wove the incident into a nonsense 
jingle. Another mother may have made up a little rhyme 
about her child because he was so sleepy he wouldn’t wait 
to get his shoes and stockings off before he tumbled into bed; 
and we have Diddle, diddle, dumpling, my son John. This 
is pure conjecture; we have no evidence that either of these 
rhymes was so composed. But we do know that jingles are 


Mother Goose 


21 


often created in just that fashion—on the spur of the moment, 
to fit some sudden need. Some time ago, I was present 
when a jingle was made in this manner. Two boys who had 
been playing together had a quarrel, and one of them started 
home. As he marched off, the other yelled after him in 
derision: 


There he goes down the road 
Like a great big toad. 

Not a good jingle, but it illustrates my point. I feel sure 
that some of the Mother Goose jingles originated in this way. 
No doubt they were altered and improved as they were trans¬ 
mitted, but the improvement was not made by professional 
literary artists; it was made by folk-artists. And that state¬ 
ment we can make general; the Mother Goose jingles were 
composed by the people—not written down, not studied, not 
elaborated. They were spontaneous utterances of such ex¬ 
cellence that they remained in the memory of the people and 
were transmitted from generation to generation by word of 
mouth. 

Does any one doubt that oral tradition was able to pre¬ 
serve and transmit the Mother Goose verses through the long 
period of two or three hundred years? Let him but remem¬ 
ber that folk tales and fairy stories lived orally for centuries 
before the Grimms and Jacobs and Langs gathered them into 
books. Let him but remember that the popular ballads of 
England and Scotland were transmitted orally from the 
fifteenth and sixteenth centuries to the time of Percy, in 
the eighteenth century. Or let him but study the history 
of such singing games as King William ivas King James s 
son, or London Bridge is falling down , or observe how the 
boys of today use in their games certain terms and phrases 


22 


The Children's Poets 


that are hundreds of years old—terms that have never found 
their way into books, not even into any but the most recent 
dictionaries. Oral tradition has been the amber in which 
nearly all of the folk lore, folk games, and folk literature 
we now possess has been preserved. It is only within the 
last hundred years or so that it has been displaced by print. 
In olden days, there was no surer way to transmit an idea 
or an emotion down the ages than to commit it to the ten¬ 
acious memory of the common people, provided that the idea 
or emotion originated among the common people and was 
expressed in verse, song, proverb, or other striking form. 

The Mother Goose jingles, then, are genuine products of 
the people of the past. And they suggest the past, the 
childish, unlettered, unsophisticated past, the past with its 
broad farcical fun, its delight in alliteration, assonance, and 
rapid rhythms. That period has long gone by; we are now 
too literary, too refined and too artificial to blow the beautiful 
rainbow bubbles. We elders are becoming too grown-up 
to enjoy nursery jingles; our ears have become dulled to 
their pleasant sounds, our practical outlook on life has made 
them seem trivial and barren. But each generation of chil¬ 
dren, recognizing the close affinity between their desires and 
emotions and these creations of an earlier and more childish 
era, turn a deaf ear and listless eye toward manufactured 
literary wares and with their strange faculty of appropri¬ 
ating what they want, revert to the gay, nonsensical jingles 
of the immortal Mother Goose. 

What is the secret of the old lady’s charm? It seems cruel 
to pin the butterfly jingles down and subject them to 
scientific examination; yet that is what we must do, if we 
are to analyze them thoroughly. Why do children like these 
verses? 


Mother Goose 


23 


First. Children like them because the subject matter 
is interesting to them. They are dramatic, and children 
love dramatic action. Many of them tell, or suggest, brief 
stories. Many of them contain character sketches of chil¬ 
dren and of childlike men and women. Some of them intro¬ 
duce animals as actors. Some put forward riddles, and 
riddles are always fascinating to children—for a time at 
least. They are full of action and picturesque scenes and 
suggestive language. The Mother Goose world is preemi¬ 
nently a childish world, a world of grotesque and singular 
objects, scenes, and persons. 

Second. Children like them because they are rhyth¬ 
mical, and the rhythm is quantitative. Now, quantitative 
rhythm has two characteristics: first, the beats, or accents, 
are strictly regular, as regular as the ticking of a clock or 
the beating of a drum; and second, the number of accented 
syllables in a metrical foot is immaterial, provided the 
accented syllables occur at exactly regular intervals of time. 
To illustrate— 

I saw an old worn -an tossed up in a 6as-ket, 

TVme-teen times as high as the moon. 

Keep time to this as you read, accenting the italicized syl¬ 
lables, and you will observe that the time is as marked as 
that of a metronome, although the number of syllables in the 
line varies from eight to twelve and the number of syllables 
in the foot varies from one (first foot of second line) to four 
(last foot of first line). 

This regularity of metrical accent must be maintained even 
at the expense of the logical emphasis. Let us read this: 

Pease porridge hot , pease porridge cold , 

Pease porridge in the pot, nine days old. 


24 


The Children s Poets 


We must emphasize in, although it is not a significant word, 
and must ignore pot, which is important both in meaning and 
as a rhyme to hot. In short, Mother Goose is never well 
read unless read with strongly marked and unfailingly 
regular accents. Elisions, rapid utterance of unaccented 
syllables, and pauses must be depended upon to make the 
tempo regular. 

Mother Goose employs various devices to stress her ac¬ 
cents. Chief among these are alliteration and rhyme. 

Sing a song of six-pence. 

Here, for example, the alliteration in sing and six serves 
to throw additional stress upon these syllables. The function 
of rhyme is, perhaps, not primarily to emphasize the accent; 
but this it does in Mother Goose because the rhymes are so 
close together. If the lines are short, end-rhyme only is 
used; if long, internal rhyme is ordinarily employed. The 
recurrence of the combination ill in the line, Jack and Jill 
went up the hill, assuredly reinforces the accent. 

Undoubtedly, then, one of the most decided characteristics 
of the Mother Goose jingles is the unbroken regularity of 
strongly marked accents. Children like that. The feeling 
for time seems to be the fundamental musical feeling; it 
seems to have developed first in all the early races and to 
develop first in children. And the primary demand is for 
absolutely regular time. Later, if the sense of rhythm is 
developed, the ear takes pleasure in ritards and accelerandos, 
in holds and rests, in the various devices in music and 
poetry to vary the meter to conform to the particular idea 
or emotion expressed. But children care most for that 
verse which is marked by the uninterrupted, never varying 
recurrence of strongly stressed syllables. 


Mother Goose 


25 


This regularity of strongly struck beats does not entirely 
account for the wonderful jingling music of the Mother 
Goose verses. Pope’s verses are regular. 

Be not the first by whom the new is tried, 

Nor yet the last to lay the old aside. 

That is regular enough. But it has no jingle. It doesn’t 
trip, doesn’t skip and skim along, doesn’t set you to beating 
time with your feet. Something more is necessary if we are 
to have a sprightly, staccato, rapid-moving jingle. And 
something more is found in Mother Goose. 

Perhaps the largest factor in the production of the jin¬ 
gling so noticeable in Mother Goose is the multiplicity of 
unaccented syllables. If you pronounce four syllables in 
the same length of time in which you pronounce two (as you 
do in I saw an old woman , and in scores of Mother Goose 
melodies), you must inevitably utter the four syllables twice 
as rapidly as you do the two. Almost every Mother Goose 
poem furnishes instances of this rapid utterance of unac¬ 
cented syllables preceding the regular and decided stroke of 
the accent. It is like the preliminary tapping of the ham¬ 
mer on the anvil before the smith strikes the iron. It is like 
the clatter and buzz and roll of the snare drum filling in the 
pauses between the steady and strong strokes of the bass 
drum. This never failing but ever varying tinkling and trip¬ 
ping of the unaccented syllables that accompanies the mo¬ 
notonously regular return of the accent is, perhaps, the most 
important factor in the jingling effect so characteristic of the 
Mother Goose verses. 

But it is not the only factor. Many of the verses are tro¬ 
chaic in movement, that is, the lines start off with the accent 
on the first syllable. This tends to give a pronounced swing 


26 


The Children's Poets 


/ to the movement. The short lines; the numerous repetitions, 
found in dozens of the jingles and the basis of such jingles as 
There was a Crooked Man, and The Old Woman and the Six¬ 
pence; the frequent recurrence of the rhyming sounds, caused 
both by the short lines and the internal rhymes; the plentiful 
use of feminine, or double rhymes ( Muffet — tuffet; spider 
—side her; Horner — corner; rhymes in which the stress 
falls on some syllable before the last)—all this makes the 
jingling more pronounced. 

Moreover, the alliteration, which, as we have seen, empha¬ 
sizes the accent, often produces a crisp, tinkling effect. This, 
of course, depends upon the sound alliterated. For example, 
take the following stanza: 

Sing a song of sixpence, 

Pockets full of rye; 

Four and twenty blackbirds 
Baked into a pie. 

The explosive p's and b's give liveliness and vivacity to the 
verse, making it staccato as well as marcato. Sometimes the 
alliteration combines with assonance to create a distinctly 
onomatopoeic effect. In the line “One misty, moisty morn¬ 
ing,” for example, the ms and sty's, when dwelt upon and 
drawn out, suggest by their very sound the dull, drab land¬ 
scape. In Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker's man, the p's, k's, 
and b, in connection with the dactyllic movement, suggest 
briskness, while the succession of a's reflects the gay mood 
of the poem. There is no need to multiply instances; almost 
every popular Mother Goose jingle contains examples of 
pleasing combinations of vowels and consonants. 

Mother Goose often coins new words. Most of them are 
nonsensical and most of them are jingly, alliterative, and 


Mother Goose 


27 


onomatopoeic. Humpty-dumpty; Hey diddle diddle; Did¬ 
dle, diddle, dumpling; Hickery, dickery, dock; Hickety-pick- 
ety; Handy-spandy, Jack-a-dandy —these are a few specimens 
of the many comical words and phrases. Sometimes the ' 
poem has a string of nonsense for a refrain, such as Rowley , 
powley, gammon and spinach, or Fol de riddle, lol de rid¬ 
dle, hi dank do. Sometimes the poem seems to exist for the 
mere sake of the nonsensical jingle, as witness the following: 

I had four brothers over the sea, 

Perrie, merrie, dixie, domine; 

And they sent each a present to me, 

Petrum, patrum, paradise, temporie, 

Perrie, merrie, dixie, domine. 

Sometimes, especially in the counting-out jingles, the poem is 
metrical nonsense pure and simple. 

All in all, the best Mother Goose verses are the best jingles 
ever written—or made, rather, for we may be sure that most 
of them were not written down until they had been spoken, 
recited, jingled by thousands of people. And I suspect that 
it is the jingle element in the verses that has been most influ¬ 
ential in preserving them for so many years. Nothing is so 
easily learned as a jingle; nothing is so likely to be recited 
over and over again. 

^ Third. Children like these verses because they are full 
of humor—humor of the nonsense variety. And the non¬ 
sense word or phrase is not the only element in this humor. 
The content itself is often comical. The funny character¬ 
istics, scrapes, and misadventures of children and grown-ups 
—Jack and Jill and their famous tumble; Miss Muffett and 
her cowardice; Jack Horner and his greed; My Son John and 
his strange propensity for going to bed with one shoe off and 


28 


The Children’s Poets 


one shoe on; Simple Simon and his encounter with the pie¬ 
man; The Little Man and his gun—all these and dozens of 
others, with their whimsical ways and surprising escapades 
furnish the good, broad, slapdash fun that children love. 
Crude? Perhaps. Obvious? Yes. But it is the kind of 
fun that children like. It is full of dramatic action, 
full of pictures, full of the absurd, the ludicrous, the ri¬ 
diculous. 

In many of the jingles, the humor is furnished by the sur¬ 
prise. It is the unexpected incongruity that amuses the 
child in the story of the Man in the Moon who burned his 
mouth on cold pease-porridge, the same unexpectedness which 
appears in the story of the Man in Our Town who scratched 
out his eyes and then scratched them in, and in the story of 
the Man who ran fourteen miles in fifteen days. 

Other jingles are amusing because of the solemn air with 
which a trivial fact is stated. 

There was an old woman 
Lived under a hill; 

And if she’s not gone, 

She lives there still. 

Akin to these is the jingle that begins to tell a story and then 
suddenly changes its mind and ends with a jolt. 

I’ll tell you a story 
About Jack-a-nory, 

And now my story’s begun. 

I’ll tell you another 

About Jack and his brother, 

And now my story’s done. 

Still others are humorous in their presentation of absurd, 


Mother Goose 


29 


upside-down, topsy-turvy pictures. Hey diddle diddle , the 
cat and the fiddle belongs to this group. Here is another: 

A cat came fiddling out of a barn, 

With a pair of bagpipes under her arm; 

She could sing nothing but fiddle cum fee, 

The mouse has married the bumble bee. 

The humor in Mother Goose is at its best when the jingles 
are read aloud. The funny onomatopoeic words, the musical 
lilt and tilt of the rhythm, the wild orgy of sounds gone crazy 
with joy, the spluttering and crackling and sizzling, the pop¬ 
ping and hopping, the dashing and crashing and splashing— 
therein lies the genuine fun of Mother Goose. Sometimes I 
think there is no more laughable medley of sounds in all the 
world than Hickety , pickety , my black hen, unless it be 
Heetum peetum , penny pie , or Diddledy, diddledy, dum- 
tee, the mouse ran up the plum tree. 

Comical, surprising, grotesque ideas set to a rhythm that 
swings you along in a whirl and swirl of pleasant excitement, 
a strain of gay, tinkling banjo notes—that is Mother Goose. 

It makes me think of popcorn popping over a wood fire in 
an old-fashioned fireplace, surrounded by a group of laugh¬ 
ing, singing children. 

Fourth. Children like the Mother Goose jingles because * 
they are stimulating to the imagination. Most of them are 
brief, so brief that they merely sketch a character or suggest 
a story. They leave the details to the imagination of the 
reader; the curiosity of children being proverbial, a hint, 
a random remark, or a riddle is sufficient to set the child’s 
mind revolving. Then does he create a planet out of wan¬ 
dering fragments of star-dust. Nor does it matter to him if 
his planet is lopsided and moves in an eccentric orbit, so 


30 


The Children's Poets 


long as it is peopled with charming Lilliputians and Brob- 
dignagians, with fiddling cats and laughing dogs. It is his 
own star and he would not have it different. Children have 
an innate belief in the marvelous and the supernatural. In 
The Old Woman in the Basket, The Pig that Flew up in the 
Air , and scores of other jingles, Mother Goose gives him 
material for wonder—fresh star-dust. Think of the stim¬ 
ulus to a child’s imagination in such verses as the following: 

I had a little nut tree; nothing would it bear 
But a silver nutmeg and a golden pear; 

The king of Spain’s daughter came to visit me, 

And all was because of my little nut tree. 

I skipped over water, I danced over sea, 

And all the birds in the air couldn’t catch me. 

Even when the incidents are not of a supernatural type, 
they are often so extraordinary as to give a fillip to the 
child’s imagination. When I was a small boy, I never tired 
of trying to visualize Goosey , Goosey, Gander. I wanted 
to know if it was a real goose that was wandering about the 
house; I wondered why the old man would not say his 
prayers; I was curious to find out why one should take him 
by the left leg and throw him down the stairs. It was all so 
puzzling that I was moved to utter something like Mr. Tul- 
liver’s complaint: “Things have got so twisted round and 
wrapped up in unreasonable words. Everything winds about 
so. The more straightforward you are, the more you’re 
puzzled.” No doubt this kind of puzzling is good for chil¬ 
dren, because it sets their wits to work to seek a solution. As 
for me, I was not puzzled, as I remember, by the points that 
etymologists and folk-lorists worry over. I was not curious, 
for instance, about the “tuffet” that Miss Muffet sat upon. 


Mother Goose 


31 


Nor do I believe that other children are. Not long ago, I 
tried to pose a little girl acquaintance by asking her what a 
tuffet is. “Something to sit on,” she answered with 
withering brevity and went serenely on to her really impor¬ 
tant concerns. 

The orthodox riddles, such as Humpty-dumpty, Thirty 
White Horses, Little Nanny Etticoat, and the like, have a very 
satisfactory intellectual content for children. They usu¬ 
ally take little pleasure in guessing at the riddle, and soon 
give it up. But when they learn the answer and the light 
breaks upon them, when they perceive the cleverness of the 
puzzle and the aptness of the allegory—ah, that is a moment 
of rare intellectual joy! At once they must catch some one 
else, they must have the pleasure of telling the answer and 
feeling superior. Fine toys, riddles. But alas! the joy is 
fleeting, the toy soon broken; and the child comes back to 
his Goosey, Goosey, Gander, and its infinite variety of pic¬ 
tures, scenes, and personages, shadowy, half-understood, tan¬ 
talizing. Therein lies the true intellectual content of Mother 
Goose: in her appeal to the imagination. 

“But does Mother Goose teach anything? That’s what I 
want to know,” says the utilitarian. “Does it teach 
children any facts? Does it teach them any morals and 
manners?” Why, no. It is the teachers that must teach 
them facts and figures and that must try to teach them man¬ 
ners and morals. Let the carpenter stick to his rule and the 
cobbler to his last. Mother Goose is lamentably weak in 
history. Her ideas are not scientific; she would have us 
Believe that dogs play the flute. Facts are not her strong 
point. But then—any one can teach facts. To develop 
the sense of rhythm, to provoke “mirth that after no repent¬ 
ing draws,” to stimulate the imagination and provide food 


32 


The Children's Poets 


for fancy and emotion—that is difficult. It needs to be 
done; and Mother Goose does it supremely well. And what 
if the profit were no more than pleasure? Pleasure is 
profit. He was one of Shakespeare’s wisest fools that said, 
“Pleasure will be paid one time or another.” 

If the teacher must reckon the value of Mother Goose in 
educational dollars and cents, if she must reduce the jingles 
to terms of practicality, let her be satisfied with the aid that 
Mother Goose renders to the beginner in reading. So far as 
I can see, there is no reason why the rhymes should not be 
used to familiarize children with print. A child who knows 
Little Boy Blue orally, learns to read the jingle easily and 
eagerly. He is following the natural route from the known 
to the related unknown and he is having some fun on the 
journey. And the vocabulary of most of the jingles is pre¬ 
cisely the vocabulary that the little novice in reading should 
acquire. It is made up of everyday, colloquial words. It 
contains names, both of animals and of persons, specific ad¬ 
jectives, and active verbs; and it was not composed on the 
silly theory that long words are necessarily harder for 
children to learn. 

No, there is no good reason why these childish poems 
should not be used to teach reading. But any employment 
of them that takes the mystery and magic out of them and 
reduces them to the commonplace—let us have none of that. 
Too much or too complex a dramatization tends to do this 
very thing. Of course, since dramatization furnishes 'ed¬ 
ucative pleasure, it seems a pity not to use it to a certain ex¬ 
tent. This much must be said, however: the child should 
first learn the jingles orally. From the age of two or three 
up to the age of five or six he should hear the verses, know 
them, repeat them, and love them as oral poetry. After that, 


Mother Goose 


33 


he may have his suggestive illustrated editions and engage 
with moderation in the game of dramatization. We cannot 
be too often reminded that these poems are essentially oral. 
The child that becomes acquainted with them through the 
medium of print, or who has his imagination forestalled by 
a dramatization, or his hunger for the marvelous prematurely 
satisfied by illustrations, will never realize the full and per¬ 
fect pleasure of Mother Goose. 

Let me in conclusion, suggest some good editions. 

Perhaps the best cheap edition, Mother Goose: A Book 
of Nursery Rhymes, D. C. Heath and Company, Boston. 
The collection was made by the late Charles Welsh, 
the scholar herein referred to, and contains a brief in¬ 
troduction by him. 

The Only True Mother Goose Melodies, Houghton Mifflin 
Company, Boston. An exact reproduction of the Boston 
edition of 1834. 

Mother Goose's Melodies for Children, Houghton Mifflin 
Company, Boston. A good collection. It contains 
some jingles not often found and some which a stricter 
classification might have excluded as not belonging 
properly to Mother Goose. The editor, Mr. William A. 
Wheeler, gives the arguments for the Fleet edition as 
they were understood by him at the time of publication. 

Mr. George Saintsbury’s collection, National Rhymes 
of the Nursery, Frederick A. Stokes and Company, New 
York. An interesting edition. It is well illustrated 
by Gordon Browne. 

The Nursery Rhyme Book, Frederick Warne and Company, 
New York. Verses collected by Andrew Lang and il¬ 
lustrated by Leslie Brooke. One of the best editions I 


34 


The Children's Poets 


have seen. The introduction discusses the historical 
origins of some of the jingles. 

Copies of James 0. Halliwell’s The Nursery Rhymes of 
England may still be found. This collection is inval¬ 
uable. 

Various artists of note, besides those mentioned above, 
have tried their hand at illustrating Mother Goose. The 
Kate Greenaway Mother Goose is one of the classics of 
children’s literature. It has lately been reprinted by Fred¬ 
erick Warne and Company. The Century Company’s 
edition of 1913 is beautifully illustrated by Arthur Rackham. 
The most interesting illustrations ever assembled to illus¬ 
trate Mother Goose were brought together for the edition 
that was published at Boston in 1833 and was reprinted by 
Lee and Shepard in 1905 with an introduction by the Rev¬ 
erend Edward Everett Hale. 


Mother Goose 


35 


SELECTIONS FROM MOTHER GOOSE’S MELODIES 

Little boy blue, come blow up your horn, 

The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s in the corn; 
Where’s the little boy that tends the sheep? 

He’s under the hay-cock, fast asleep. 

Go wake him, go wake him. 0! no, not I: 

For if I do, he’ll be sure to cry. 


Hark, hark, the dogs do bark, 

The beggars have come to town. 
Some in rags, and some in tags, 
And some in velvet gowns. 


Sing a song of sixpence, 

A pocket full of rye; 

Four and twenty blackbirds 
Baked into a pie; 

When the pie was opened, 

The birds began to sing; 

Was not that a dainty dish 
To set before the king? 

The king was in the parlor, 
Counting out his money; 

The queen was in the kitchen, 
Eating bread and honey; 

The maid was in the garden, 
Hanging out the clothes; 

There came a little blackbird, 
And snapped off her nose. 

Jenny was so mad, 

She didn’t know what to do; 

She put her finger in her ear, 
And cracked it right in two. 




The Children's Poets 


a 6 


Jack and Jill went up the hill, 

To fetch a pail of water; 

Jack fell down, and broke his crown, 
And Jill came tumbling after. 

Then up Jack got, and home did trot, 
As fast as he could caper, 

And went to bed to mend his head, 
With vinegar and brown paper. 


Goosey, goosey, gander, 

Whither do you wander? 
Upstairs and downstairs, 

In my lady’s chamber, 

There I met an old man 
Who wouldn’t say his prayers; 

I took him by the left leg, 

And threw him down the stairs. 


Lavender blue, and rosemary green, 

When I am king, you shall be queen, 

Call up my maids at four of the clock, 
Some to the wheel, and some to the rock, 
Some to make hay, and some to shell corn 
And you and I will keep the bed warm. 


A 

B 

C 

D 

E 

F 

G 

H 

J 

K 

L 

M 


was an apple-pie; 

bit it; 

cut it; 

dealt it; 

eat it; 

fought for it; 
got it; 
had it; 
joined it; 
kept it; 
longed for it; 
mourned for it; 






Mother Goose 


37 


N nodded at it; 

0 opened it; 

P peeped in it; 

Q quartered it; 

R ran for it; 

S stole it; 

T took it; 

V viewed it; 

W wanted it; 

X, Y, Z, and ampersand, 

All wished for a piece in hand. 


Baa, baa, black sheep, 

Have you any wool? 

Yes, sir; yes, sir; 

Three bags full; 

One for my master, 

One for my dame, 

And one for the little boy 
Who lives in the lane. 


Cock a doodle doo! 

My dame has lost her shoe; 

My master’s lost his fiddling-stick, 

And don’t know what to do. 

Cock a doodle doo! 

What is my dame to do? 

Till master finds his fiddling-stick, 
She’ll dance without her shoe. 

Cock a doodle doo! 

My dame has lost her shoe, 

And master’s found his fiddling-stick. 
Sing doodle doodle doo! 

Cock a doodle doo! 

My dame will dance with you, 

While master fiddles his fiddling-stick, 
For dame and doodle doo. 




38 


The Children's Poets 


Cock a doodle doo! 

Dame has lost her shoe; 

Gone to bed and scratched her head, 
And can’t tell what to do. 


Gay go up and gay go down, 

To ring the bells of London town. 

Bull’s eyes and targets, 

Say the bells of St. Margaret’s. 

Brickbats and tiles, 

Say the bells of St. Giles’. 

Half-pence and farthings, 

Say the bells of St. Martin’s. 

Oranges and lemons, 

Say the bells of St. Clement’s. 

Pancakes and fritters, 

Say the bells of St. Peter’s. 

Two sticks and an apple, 

Say the bells of Whitechapel. 

Old Father Baldpate, 

Say the slow bells at Aldgate. 

Pokers and tongs, 

Say the bells at St. John’s. 

Kettles and pans, 

Say the bdls at St. Ann’s. 

You owe me ten shillings, 

Say the bells at St. Helen’s. 

When will you pay me? 

Say the bells at Old Bailey. 



Motlie?' Goose 


39 


When I grow rich, 

Say the bells at Shoreditch. 


Pray, when will that be? 
Say the bells of Stepney. 


I’m sure I don’t know, 

Says the great bell at Bow. 


Here comes a candle to light you to bed, 

And here comes a chopper to chop off your head. 


One, two, 

Buckle my shoe; 
Three, four, 

Shut the door; 

Five, six, 

Pick up sticks; 

Seven, eight, 

Lay them straight; 
Nine, ten, 

A good fat hen; 
Eleven, twelve, 

Who will delve? 
Thirteen, fourteen, 
Maids a-courting; 
Fifteen, sixteen, 
Maids a-kissing; 
Seventeen, eighteen, 
Maids a-waiting; 
Nineteen, twenty, 

My stomach’s empty. 


Higgledy piggledy, 
Here we lie, 
Picked and plucked, 
And put in a pie. 





40 


The Children’s Poets 


My first is snapping, snarling, growling, 

My second’s industrious, romping, and prowling. 


Old Mother Hubbard 

Went to the cupboard, 

To get her poor dog a bone; 

But when she came there, 

The cupboard was bare, 

And so the poor dog had none. 

She went to the baker’s 
To buy him some bread; 

But when she came back, 

The poor dog was dead. 

She went to the joiner’s 
To buy him a coffin; 

But when she came back, 

The poor dog was laughing. 

She took a clean dish 
To get him some tripe; 

But when she came back, 

He was smoking his pipe. 

She went to the fishmonger’s 
To buy him some fish; 

And when she came back, 

He was licking the dish. 

She went to the alehouse 
To get him some beer; 

But when she came back, 

The dog sat in a chair. 

She went to the tavern 
For white wine and red; 

But when she came back, 

The dog stood on his head. 







Mother Goose 

She went to the hatter’s 
To buy him a hat; 

But when she came back, 

He was feeding the cat. 

She went to the barber’s 
To buy him a wig; 

But when she came back, 

He was dancing a jig. 

She went to the fruiterer’s 
To buy him some fruit; 

But when she came back, 

He was playing the flute. 

She went to the tailor’s 
To buy him a coat; 

But when she came back, 

He was riding a goat. 

She went to the cobbler’s 
To buy him some shoes; 

But when she came back, 

He was reading the news. 

She went to the seamstress 
To buy him some linen; 

But when she came back, 

The dog was spinning. 

She went to the hosier’s 
To buy him some hose; 

But when she came back, 

He was dressed in his clothes. 

The dame made a curtsey, 

The dog made a bow; 

The dame said, “Your servant,” 
The dog said, “Bow, wow.” 


41 


The Children's Poets 

Once in my'life I married a wife, 

And where do you think I found her? 
On Gretna Green, in a velvet sheen, 

And I took up a stick to pound her. 
She jumped over a barberry-bush, 

And I jumped over a timber; 

I showed her a gay gold ring, 

And she showed me her finger. 


Little Dicky Dilver 
Had a wife of silver; 

He took a stick and broke her back, 
And threw her in the river. 

Fine stockings, fine shoes, 

Fine yellow hair, 

Double ruffle around her neck 
And not a dress to wear. 


Jack in the pulpit, out and in; 
Sold his wife for a minikin pin. 


Intery, mintery, cutery-corn, 
Apple seed and apple thorn; 
Wire, brier, limber-lock, 

Five geese in a flock, 

Sit and sing by a spring, 
O-u-t, and in again. 


Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, 

And can’t tell where to find them; 
Leave them alone and they’ll come home, 
And bring their tails behind them. 

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep, 

And dreamt she heard them bleating; 
But when she awoke, she found it a joke, 
For they were still a-fleeting. 

Then up she took her little crook, 
Determined for to find them; 






Mother Goose 


43 


She found them indeed, but it made her heart bleed, 
For they’d left all their tails behind ’em. 

Ride a cock-horse to Banbury-cross, 

To see what Tommy can buy; 

A penny white loaf, 

A penny white cake, 

And a two-penny apple-pie. 

To market ride the gentlemen, 

So do we, so do we; 

Then comes the country clown, 

Hobbledy gee, hobbledy gee; 

First go the ladies, nim, nim, nim; 

Next come the gentlemen, trim, trim, trim; 
Then come the country clowns, gallop-a-trot. 


Here goes my lord „ 

A trot, a trot, a trot, a trot; 

Here goes my lady 
A canter, a canter, a canter, a canter! 

Here goes my young master 
Jockey-hitch, jockey-hitch, jockey-hitch, jockey-hitch; 

Here goes my young miss, 

An amble, an amble, an amble, an amble! 

The footman lags behind to tipple ale and wine, 

And goes gallop, a gallop, a gallop, to make up his time. 


A duck and a drake, 

A nice barley-cake, 

With a penny to pay the old baker; 
A hop and a scotch 
Is another notch, 

Slitherum, slatherum, take her. 


Handy Spandy, Jack-a-dandy, 

Loved plum cake and sugar candy; 

He bought some at a grocer’s shop, 
And out he came, hop, hop, hop. 







44 


The Children’s Poets 


Hickery dickery, six and seven, 
Alabone, crackabone, ten and eleven; 
Spin, span, muskidun; 

Twiddle ’um, twaddle ’um, twenty-one. 


There was an owl lived in an oak. 

Wisky, wasky, weedle; 

And every word he ever spoke, 

Was fiddle, faddle, feedle. 

A gunner chanced to come that way, 
Wisky, wasky, weedle; 

Says he, “I’ll shoot you, silly bird!” 
Fiddle, faddle, feedle. 


When I was a bachelor, I lived by myself, 

And all the bread and cheese I had I put upon the shelf; 
The rats and the mice, they led me such a life, 

I had to go to London to get myself a wife. 

The streets were so broad, and the lanes were so narrow, 

I had to bring her home in an old wheelbarrow; 

The wheelbarrow broke, and my wife got a fall, 

And down came wheelbarrow, little wife, and all. 


Snail, snail, come out of your hole, 

Or else I will beat you as black as a coal. 


There were two blackbirds, 
Sitting on a hill, 

The one named Jack, 

The other named Jill; 

Fly away, Jack! 

Fly away, Jill! 

Come again, Jack! 

Come again, Jill! 


There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, 

She had so many children she didn’t know what to do. 







Mother Goose 


She gave them some broth without any bread; 

She whipped them all soundly, and put them to bed. 

Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a thief; 

Taffy came to my house and stole a piece of beef: 

I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy wasn’t home; 

Taffy came to my house and stole a marrow-bone. 

I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was in bed, 

I took the marrow-bone and beat about his head. 


There was a crooked man, and he went a crooked mile. 

He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile: 

He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse. 
And they all lived together in a little crooked house. 

Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you been? 

“I’ve been to London to look at the queen.” 

Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you there? 

“I frightened a little mouse under the chair.” 

Simple Simon met a pieman 
Going to the fair; 

Says Simple Simon to the pieman, 

“Let me taste your ware.” 

Says the pieman to Simple Simon, 

“Show me first your penny”; 

Says Simple Simon to the pieman, 

“Indeed I have not any.” 

Simple Simon went a-fishing 
For to catch a whale; 

All the water.he had got 
Was in his mother’s pail. 

Simple Simon went to look 
If plums grew on a thistle; 

He pricked his fingers very much, 

Which made poor Simon whistle. 






46 


The Children's Poets 

/ 

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, 

How does your garden grow? 
With silver bells, and cockle-shells, 
And pretty maids all in a row. 


Jack be nimble, 

Jack be quick; 
And Jack jump over 
The candlestick. 


Needles and pins, needles and pins, 

When a man marries, his trouble begins. 


As I was going to St. Ives, 

I met a man with seven wives, 
Each wife had seven sacks, 

Each sack had seven cats, 

Each cat had seven kits: 

Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, 

How many were going to St. Ives? 


Tom he was a piper’s son, 

He learned to play when he was young; 

But all the tune that he could play, 

Was, “Over the hills and far away!” 

Over the hills, and a great way off, 

And the wind will blow my top-knot off. 

Now Tom with his pipe made such a noise, 

That he pleased both the girls and the boys; 

And they all stopped to hear him play, 

“Over the hills and far away!” 

Now Tom with his pipe did play with such skill, 

That those who heard him could never keep still; 

Whenever they heard they began for to dance, 

Even pigs on their hind legs would after him prance. 







Mother Goose 


47 


As Dolly was milking her cow one day, 

Tom took out his pipe and began for to play; 

So Doll and the cow danced “The Cheshire Round,” 

Till the pail was broke, and the milk ran on the ground. 

He met old Dame Trot with a basket of eggs, 

He used his pipe and she used her legs; 

She danced about till the eggs were all broke, 

She began for to fret, but he laughed at the joke. 

He saw a cross fellow was beating an ass, 

Heavy laden with pots, pans, dishes, and glass; 

He took out his pipe and played them a tune, 

And the jackass’s load was lightened full soon. 


There was an old woman 
Sold puddings and pies, 
She went to the mill 

And dust flew in her eyes. 
While through the streets, 

To all she meets, 

She always cries', 

“Hot Pies—Hot Pies!” 


If you sneeze on Monday, you sneeze for danger; 
Sneeze on a Tuesday, kiss a stranger; 

Sneeze on a Wednesday, sneeze for a letter; 

Sneeze on a Thursday, something better; 

Sneeze on a Friday, sneeze for sorrow; 

Sneeze on a Saturday, see your sweetheart tomorrow. 


1. I went up one pair of stairs. 

2. Just like me. 

1. I went up two pair of stairs. 

2. Just like me. 

1. I went into a room. 

2. Just like me. 





48 


The Children’s Poets 


1. I looked out of a window. 

2. Just like me. 

1. And there I saw a monkey. 

2. Just like me. 


One to make ready, 

And two to prepare; 
Good luck to the rider, 
And away goes the mare. 


Rompty-iddity, row, row, row, 

If I had a good supper, I could eat it now. 


Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, 

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall; 

And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men 
Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again. 


What are little boys made of, made of? 

What are little boys made of? 

Snaps and snails, and puppy dogs’ tails; 

And that’s what little boys are made of, made of. 

What are little girls made of, made of? 

What are little girls made of? 

Sugar and spice, and all that’s nice; 

And that’s what little girls are made of, made of. 






CHAPTER THREE 


Ann and Jane Taylor 

Ann and Jane Taylor were born in London in 1782 and 
1783, respectively. They were the daughters of Isaac Tay¬ 
lor and Ann (Martin) Taylor, both of whom were richly 
endowed with literary and artistic talent. Isaac Taylor was, 
indeed, the most famous lay preacher of his time and a writer 
and artist of note. Mrs. Taylor, who was also a writer, lived 
to see the Boston edition of her Practical Hints to Young 
Females , which was published in 1820. 

With such gifted people for parents, it is not at all sur¬ 
prising that Jane and Ann Taylor should have become poets. 
But a talent for writing does not tell the whole story of their 
rich inheritance. They had a home life as simple, as well- 
ordered, and as beautiful as any of which we have record. 
The school of poetry they founded is built upon the simple 
piety and charm of an old-fashioned English home. 

In 1786, when the sisters were still small children, their 
father moved from London to Lavenham the very name 
is like a poem—in Suffolk. There, in the English country¬ 
side, among the cheerful Suffolk cottages with their gable 
ends, thatched roofs, and embowered porches, Jane and Ann 
began an idyllic child life. There were plays and imper¬ 
sonations, charming picnics in the woods, the serious respon¬ 
sibilities of dolls and dancing lessons. The girls knew all 
the village characters and were on good terms with their 
neighbors. They knew all the flowers and birds of Suffolk; 
even the animals of the neighborhood were known to them 
by name and nature. 

Of the girls, Jane was the more lively. She began to 
49 


50 


The Children's Poets 


compose plays and verses at a very early age. But it is a 
mistake to suppose that she was principal poet of the two. 
As a matter of fact, they were evenly matched, and their 
manner of thought and literary style were almost identical, 
though each poem was completely the product of one or 
the other and was usually signed Jane or Ann. Their 
career in print began when Ann sent a rhymed answer to a 
puzzle in the Minor’s Pocket Book . Jane’s first printed 
poem, The Beggar Boy, appeared in the same periodical. 
Presently the publishers, Darton and Harvey, wrote to Isaac 
Taylor, enclosing certain “trifles” to be divided among the 
members of his family and asking if they would give them 
some specimens of easy poetry for young children when 
“any of their harps were tuned and their muse in good 
humor.” The result of this application was Original 
Poems for Infant Minds, in two volumes, the first volume 
coming out in 1804. 

This work, the first of its kind, attained a great success. 
It was translated into German, Dutch, and Russian, and 
became very much the fashion for young folks in America. 
It was followed in 1806 by Rhymes for the Nursery and, 
in 1808, by Hymns for Infant Minds. 

The happy home life of the Taylors continued until 1813, 
when Ann married the Rev. Josiah Gilbert, and left the 
family circle. During the same year, Jane and Isaac went 
to Ilfracombe, then as now, one of the beauty spots of Devon. 
While they were away, their father moved his family from 
Colchester to Ongar, and it was to this quaint little Essex 
village that Jane and Isaac came home in 1816. There 
Jane’s life came to an end on April 13, 1824. Her parents 
did not long survive her, Isaac Taylor dying in 1829 and 
his wife in 1830. The family circle was now completely 


51 


Ann and Jane Taylor 

broken up, but Ann continued the literary ‘tradition and 
remained an “authoress” all her life. She died at 
Nottingham, on December 20, 1866. 

I have given this somewhat brief account of the lives 
of our two poets that their work and their aims and purposes 
may be better understood and appreciated. 

There are two ways in which a writer may climb above 
the crowd of scribblers: one is by influencing great writers, 
and the other by producing great writing. The Taylors did 
the first; did they accomplish the second? Well, it is some¬ 
thing to have written My Mother, The Hand-Post, Meddlesome 
Matty, as did Ann Taylor; something to have given The 
Violet to a world of children, as did her sister. It is 
something to have pleased thousands and thousands of little 
hearts with The Cow; Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star; and 
Good-Night. We grown-ups may smile at the naivete of 
these rhymes, at their obvious didacticism, we may think 
them empty and even silly; but we cannot ignore the fact 
that when we were children we loved them sincerely. 

Jane and Ann Taylor have, moreover, a special claim to 
the grateful remembrance of children and of all who delight 
in children’s poetry: they were the first who ever wrote 
exclusively for children. 

For the purpose of examining the poems more closely, 
let us classify them as Moral Tales, Character Sketches, 
Versified Advice, and Nature Lyrics. 

Moral Tales. That a moral can be driven home with a 
story has been evident for a good many centuries. “Truth 
embodied in a tale shall enter in at lowly doors.” The 
Taylors saw the value of the method, and wrote dozens of 
tales—never, perhaps, for the pleasure derived from telling 
a good story; but nearly always for the ethical point to 


52 


The Children's Poets 


be emphasized. In these tales idle and harum-scarum boys 
and vain and hoydenish girls meet with richly deserved 
punishment; while good children—that is, quiet, polite 
boys, and industrious, sedate little misses—are coddled and 
cosseted. All this, to be sure, is very much after the 
the manner of Sunday-school literature; but it is the only 
system of ethics that children understand. Besides, a story 
is a story, and a child will crack a pretty tough nut to get 
at the kernel. Many of us, for example, can remember 
gulping down Bible stories as bits of exciting narration, the 
while jauntily ignoring the “lesson” embodied in them. It 
cannot be denied that the moral detracts from the value of 
the versified stories told by the Taylors; but, for all that, the 
tales are sprightly narratives. The authors usually employ 
the rhythmic, rattling, anapestic measure, and they are 
fond of feminine rhymes and short lines. The stories possess 
unity, compactness, directness, sincerity. They deal realis¬ 
tically with the commonplace events of childhood. Many 
of them have a sort of humor, derived from the trouble a 
mischievous urchin pulls down upon himself. Here is one 
of the moral tales that is fairly representative of the group. 

BALL 

“My good little fellow, don’t throw your ball there, 

You’ll break neighbor’s windows, I know; 

On the end of the house there is room, and to spare, 

Go round, you can have a delightful game there, 

Without fearing for where you may throw.” 

Harry thought he might safely continue his play 
With a little more care than before; 

So, heedless of all that his father could say, 

As soon as he saw he was out of the way 
Resolved to have fifty throws more. 


53 


Ann and Jane Taylor 

Already as far as 1 to forty he rose, 

And no mischief had happened at all; 

One more, and one more, he successfully throws, 

But when, as he thought, just arrived at the close, 

In popped his unfortunate ball. 

“I’m sure that I thought, and I did not intend,” 

Poor Harry was going to say; 

But soon came the glazier the window to mend, 

And both the bright shillings’ he wanted to spend 
He had for his folly to pay. 

When little folks think they know better than great, 

And what is forbidden them, do, 

We must always expect to see, sooner or late, 

That such wise little fools have a similar fate, 

And that one of the fifty goes through. 

Character Sketches. These, like the moral tales, are 
intended to convey a lesson in conduct. The titles give the 
clue to the nature of the poems: The Idle Boy; Old Sarah , 
and its companion piece, Old Susan; Crazy Robert; the Chat¬ 
terbox; Contented John; For a Little Girl that did not Like 
to be Washed. They inculcate ideals of industry, kindness 
to animals, veneration for the aged, thoughtfulness, temper¬ 
ance—those virtues, in a word, most lacking in children. 
Little boys and girls are admonished to pattern their lives 
after those of the admirable characters and never—oh, 
never!—to follow in the fatal footsteps of the mischievous 
and lazy. No doubt all this is goody-goody and wishy- 
washy and namby-pamby. It is minor morality, perhaps. 
But verses of this sort have their use nevertheless, and 
should have a place, however restricted, in the child s 
collection of poetry. Here is one of Jane Taylor’s character 
sketches. 


54 


The Children’s Poets 


MISCHIEF 

Let those who’re fond of idle tricks, 

Of throwing stones, and hurling bricks 
And all that sort of fun, 

Now hear a tale of idle Jim, 

That warning they may take by him, 

Nor do as he has done. 

In harmless sport or healthful play 
He did not pass his time away, 

Nor took his pleasure in it; 

For mischief was his only joy: 

No book, or work, nor even toy, 

Could please him for a minute. 

A neighbor’s house he’d slyly pass, 

And throw a stone to break the glass, 
And then enjoy the joke! 

Or, if a window open stood, 

He’d throw in stones, or bits of wood, 
To frighten all the folk. 

If travelers passing chanced to stay, 

Of idle Jim to ask the way, 

He never told them right; 

And then, quite hardened in his sin, 
Rejoiced to see them taken in, 

And laughed with all his might. 

He’d tie a string across the street, 

Just to entangle people’s feet, 

And make them tumble down; 

Indeed, he was disliked so much, 

That no good boy would play with such 
A nuisance to the town. 

At last the neighbors in despair, ' 

This mischief would no longer bear: 

And so—to end the tale, 


55 


Ann and Jane Taylor 

This lad, to cure him of his ways 
Was sent to spend some dismal days 
Within the county jail. 

• 

Perhaps, although they were such charming children them¬ 
selves, the Taylors did not quite understand children. The 
study of the child from a scientific standpoint is quite modern. 
We have learned that the child is not a little man or a young 
miss: that he is a child and concerned with childish things. 
We have learned the significance of childhood, and nowa¬ 
days we are content to allow Nature, in her own good time, 
to make men and women out of boys and girls, while we 
watch lest the process be marred or interrupted. We ap¬ 
prove Blake’s couplet: 

The child’s toys and the old man’s reasons 
Are the fruits of the two seasons. 

A century ago, children were overtrained, and kept like 
clipped yews along a garden path: the Taylors were but 
following the fashions of the day. 

Versified Advice. Sometimes the Taylors discard both 
the narrative and the descriptive type of moralizing and 
present ideals of childish conduct in versified tracts. This 
is mere preaching, and makes scant appeal to any normal 
youngster. But an occasional striking phrase or well-turned 
expression may dart into the mind and pierce the attention. 
Especially is this true if the poem is based upon some 
childish experience, as in the following: 

THE WAY TO BE HAPPY 

How pleasant it is at the end of the day, 

No follies to have to repent, 

But reflect on the past, and be able to say, 

My time has been properly spent! 


56 


The Children's Poets 


When I’ve finished my business with patience and care, 

And been good, and obliging, and kind, 

I lie on my pillow, and sleep away there, 

• With a happy and peaceful mind. 

Instead of all this, if it must be confessed 
That I careless and idle have been, 

I lie down as usual, and go to my rest, 

But feel discontented within. 

Then, as I dislike all the trouble I’ve had, 

In future I’ll try to prevent it, 

For I never am naughty without being sad, 

Or good—without being contented. 

Memory of my own childhood tells me that those last 
two lines are not altogether true; but they are, at least, well 
phrased. 

Nature Lyrics. Some of these are very beautiful. Ten 
or fifteen could be chosen that would rank with the best 
nature verse for children. Many of them, however, are 
injured as pure nature poems, by the Tayloresque moralizing. 
Apparently Jane and Ann were able to find 

Tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, 

Sermons in stones. 

But this is no more than Gray does, or Cowper often, or even 
Wordsworth occasionally. And the Taylors show a genuine 
love of nature in her prettiest aspects and expressions. 

THE POPPY 

High on a bright and sunny bed 
A scarlet poppy grew, 

And up it held its staring head, 

And thrust it in full view. 


57 


Ann and Jane Taylor 

Yet no attention did it win, 

By all these efforts made, 

And less unwelcome had it been, 

In some retired shade. 

Although within its scarlet breast 
No sweet perfume was found, 

It seemed to think itself the best 
Of all the flowers around. 

From this may I a hint obtain, 

And take great care indeed, 

Lest I appear as pert and vain 
As does this gaudy weed. 

Better known is the following, though the two poems are 
closely twinned as VAllegro and II Penseroso: 

THE VIOLET 

Down in a green and shady bed, 

A modest violet grew. 

Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, 

As if to hide from view. 

And yet it was a lovely flower, 

Its color bright and fair; 

It might have graced a lovely bower, 

Instead of hiding there. 

Yet thus it was content to bloom, 

In modest tints arrayed; 

And there diffuse a sweet perfume, 

Within the silent shade. 

Then let me to the valley go 
This pretty flower to see; 

That I may also learn to grow 
In sweet humility. 


58 


The Children's Poets 


The tacking of a moral upon every poem, already referred 
to herein, is a feature of the Taylors’ work which prevents 
it from being fine art. The fact that a moral can be 
found in a poem or a story does not necessarily impair, the 
value of the production; the only question is of the method 
by which the moral is drawn. If it be hung on at the end, 
in the manner of Aesop’s fables, the result is bad art, 
because it implies that the author does not feel certain that his 
lesson is discernible. But this is not so ruinous as the 
method which, to use the words of Hawthorne, “impales the 
story with its moral, as by sticking a pin through a butterfly 
—thus at once depriving it of life, and causing it to stiffen 
in an ungainly and unnatural attitude.” Impaling the story 
is precisely what the Taylors do. Indeed, sometimes they 
not only impale the poem with the moral, as if they were 
sticking a pin through a butterfly, but even tack a notice be¬ 
low to the effect that the butterfly shown was killed while 
loitering about a flower that it had been forbidden to touch. 
Even in their Nature lyrics, the determination to hunt the 
moral out into the open prevents them from seeing the beauty 
of the thicket. 

Another charge against the Taylors could be formulated 
on the fact that their vocabulary is prosaic, that they employ 
few suggestive phrases or figures of speech, and that their 
musical powers are limited. Before proceeding to trial on 
this count, however, we should, in all fairness, consider the 
avowed purpose of the authors, as frankly and self-confidently 
expressed in the preface to their first work, Original Poems 
for Infant Minds (1804): 

The deficiency of the compositions as poetry is by no means a 
secret to their authors; but it was thought desirable to abridge 
every poetic freedom and figure, and to dismiss even such words 


59 


Ann and Jane Taylor 

as, by being less familiar, might give, perhaps, a false idea to 
their little readers, or at least make a chasm in the chain of con¬ 
ception. Images, which to us are so familiar that we forget their 
imagery, may be insurmountable stumbling-blocks to children, 
who have but few literal ideas: and though it may be allowable 
to introduce a simple kind, which a little maternal attention 
will easily explain, and which may tend to excite a taste for 
natural and poetic beauty, everything superfluous it has been 
a primary endeavor to avoid. 

In spite of its defects, the poetry of Ann and Jane Taylor 
should be accessible to children and should be known to 
parents and teachers. The sisters love children—not always 
intelligently, perhaps, but sincerely. Jane has explained 
her method of composition: “I try to conjure up some child 
into my presence, address her suitably, as well as I am able, 
and when I begin to flag, I say to her, ‘There, love, now you 
may go.’ ” 

It is true, the Taylors are prim and exceedingly proper; 
but every child who reads their poetry feels that they loved 
children. They are children’s poets. If they do not always 
understand children, if they preach and exhort too much, if 
they are inferior poets—I, for one, do not wish to be¬ 
little the veneration and love paid them by generations of 
children. They write on childish themes: they desire only 
childish readers. And if we grown-ups must laugh at the 
old-fashioned moralizing and prosaic sermonizing, let it at 
least be a kindly laugh, mellowed with appreciation. 

Their work met with the approval of Sir Walter Scott, 
Southey, Whately, Arnold, and a host of others. Moreover, 
it is something to have been the first to sow poetical seed 
in the child’s garden, in the endeavor to produce moral fruit, 
even though others have since grown more fragrant flowers. 
It is something to have realized childhood and to have 


60 


The Children's Poets 


expressed an exquisite sense of gratitude for it in a verse 
as quaint and as loyal as this: , 

I thank the goodness and the grace, 

That on my birth has smiled, 

And made me in these Christian days’, 

A happy English child. 

The best collection of the Taylors’ poetry is the one made 
Ly E. V. Lucas in 1903, entitled Original Poems and Others , 
with illustrations by F. D. Bedford, published by Wells, 
Gardner, Darton and Company of London, and obtainable 
also from Frederick A. Stokes Company, New York. It con¬ 
tains a sympathetic introduction by the compiler, in whose 
opinion the Taylors have never been equaled or excelled 
as writers of poetry for children. 

The Taylors are also represented in Mary MacLeod’s 
Children s Poets Series. The special edition of Little Ann , 
with illustrations by Kate Greenaway, is the prettiest Taylor 
book ever issued. It was published in 1882 and has since 
been reprinted by Frederick Warne and Co. Little Ann 
made its first appearance under the title A True Story in 
Original Poems (1804). 


Ann and Jane Taylor 

SELECTIONS FROM ANN AND JANE TAYLOR 

THE BABY’S DANCE 

Dance, little baby, dance up high: 

Never mind, baby, mother is by; 

Crow and caper, caper and crow, 

There, little baby, there you go; 

Up to the ceiling, down to the ground, 

Backwards and forwards, round and round: 

Then dance, little baby, and mother shall sing, 

While the gay merry coral goes ding, ding-a-ding, ding. 

Ann 


BEAUTIFUL THINGS 

What millions of beautiful things there must be 

In this mighty world!—who could reckon them all? 
The tossing, the foaming, the wide flowing sea, 

And thousands of rivers that into it fall. 

0 there are the mountains, half covered with snow, 
With tall and dark trees', like a girdle of green, 

And waters that wind in the valley below, 

Or roar in the caverns, too deep to be seen. 

Vast caves in the earth, full of wonderful things, 

The bones of strange animals, jewels, and spars; 

Or, far up in Iceland, the hot boiling springs, 

Like fountains of feathers, or showers of stars! 

Here, spread the sweet meadows with thousands of flowers; 

Far away are old woods, that for ages remain; 

Wild elephants sleep in the shade of their bowers; 

Or troops of young antelopes traverse the plain. 

0 yes, they are glorious, all, to behold, 

And pleasant to read of, and curious to know, 

And something of GOD and His wisdom we’re told, 
Whatever we look at—wherever we go! 


61 


Ann 


62 


The Children’s Poets 


MY MOTHER 

Who fed me from her gentle breast, 
And hushed me in her arms to rest, 
And on my cheek sweet kisses prest? 

My Mother. 

When sleep forsook my open eye, 

Who was it sung sweet hushaby, 

And rocked me that I should not cry? 

My Mother. 

Who sat and watched my infant head, 
When sleeping on my cradle bed, 
And tears of sweet affection shed? 

My Mother. 

When pain and sickness made me cry, 
Who gazed upon my heavy eye, 

And wept for fear that I should die? 

My Mother. 

Who dressed my doll in clothes so gay, 
And taught me pretty how to play, 
And minded all I had to say? 

My Mother. 

Who ran to help me when I fell, 

And would some pretty story tell, 
Or kiss the place and make it well? 

My Mother. 

Who taught my infant lips to pray, 

And love god’s holy book and day, 
And walk in wisdom’s pleasant way? 

My Mother. 

And can I ever cease to be 
Affectionate and kind to thee, 

Who was so very kind to me, 

My Mother? 


t>3 


Ann and Jane Taylor 

Ah! no, the thought I cannot bear, 

And if god please my life to spare, 

I hope I shall reward thy care, 

My Mother. 

When thou art feeble, old and gray, 

My healthy arm shall be thy stay, 

And I will soothe thy pains away, 

My Mother. 

And when I see thee hang thy head, 

’Twill be my turn to watch thy bed, 

And tears of sweet affection shed, 

My Mother. 

Ann 

THE STAR 

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, 

How I wonder what you are! 

Up above the world so high, 

Like a diamond in the sky. 

When the blazing sun is gone, 

When he nothing shines upon, 

Then you show your little light, 

Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. 

Then the traveler in the dark, 

Thanks you for your tiny spark! 

He could not see which way to go, 

If you did not twinkle so. 

In the dark blue sky you keep, 

And often through my curtains peep, 

For you never shut your eye 
Till the sun is in the sky. 

As your bright and tiny spark 
Lights the traveler in the dark, 

Though I know not what you are, 

Twinkle, twinkle, little star. 


The Children’s Poets 


FINERY 


In an elegant frock, trimmed with beautiful lace, 

And hair nicely curled hanging over her face, 

Young Fanny went out to the house of a friend, 

With a large little party the evening to spend. 

“Ah! how they will all be delighted, I guess, 

And stare with surprise at my handsome new dress!” 

Thus said the vain girl, and her little heart beat, 
Impatient the happy young party to meet. 

But, alas! they were all too intent on their play, 

To observe the fine clothes of this lady so gay; 

And thus all her trouble quite lost its design;— 

For they saw she was proud, but forgot she was fine. 

Twas Lucy, though only in simple white clad 
(Nor trimmings, nor laces, nor jewels she had), 

Whose cheerful good-nature delighted them more 
Than Fanny and all the fine garments she wore. 

’Tis better to have a sweet smile on one’s face, 

Than to wear a fine frock with an elegant lace; 

For the good-natured girl is loved best in the main, 

If her dress is but decent, though ever so plain. 

Jane 


THE SNOWDROP 

Now the spring is coming on, 
Now the snow and ice are gone, 
Come, my little snowdrop root, 
Will you not begin to shoot? 

Ah! I see your pretty head 
Peeping on the flower bed, 
Looking all so green and gay 
On this fine and pleasant day. 


6 


Ann and Jane Taylor' 

For the mild south wind doth blow, 
And hath melted all the snow, 

And the sun shines out so warm, 

You need not fear another storm. 

So your pretty flower show, 

And your petals white undo, 

Then you’ll hang your modest head 
Down upon my flower bed. 


THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY 

“But, mamma, now,” said Charlotte, “pray, don’t you believe 
That I’m better than Jenny, my nurse? 

Only see my red shoes, and the lace on my sleeve; 

Her clothes are a thousand times worse. 

“I ride in my coach, and have nothing to do, 

And the country folks stare at me so; 

And nobody dares to control me but you, 

Because I’m a lady, you know. 


“Then, servants are vulgar, and I am genteel; 

So, really, ’tis out of the way, 

To think that I should not be better a deal 
Than maids, and such people as they.” 


“Gentility, Charlotte,” her mother replied, 
“Belongs to no station or place; 

And nothing’s so vulgar as folly and pride, 
Though dressed in red slippers and lace. 

“Not all the fine things that fine ladies possess 
Should teach them the poor to despise; 

For ’tis in good manners, and not in good dress, 
That the truest gentility lies.” 


Ann 


06 


The Children's Poets 


A PRETTY THING 

Who am I that shine so bright, 

With my pretty yellow light, 
Peeping through your curtains gray? 
Tell me, little girl, I pray. 

When the sun is gone, I rise, 

In the very silent skies; 

And a cloud or two doth skim 
Round about my silver rim. 

All the little stars do seem 
Hidden by my brighter beam; 

And among them I do ride, 

Like a queen in all her pride. 

Then the reaper goes along, 

Singing forth a merry song, 

While I light the shaking leaves, 

And the yellow harvest sheaves. 

Little girl, consider well, 

Who this simple tale doth tell; 

And’ I think you’ll guess it soon, 

For I only am the Moon. 


THE LITTLE LARK 

I hear a pretty bird, but hark! 

I cannot see it anywhere. 

O! it is a little lark, 

Singing in the morning air. 
Little lark, do tell me why 
You are singing in the sky? 

Other little birds at rest, 

Have not yet begun ;o sing; 
Every one is in its nest, 


67 


Ann and Jane Taylor 

With its head behind its wing: 

Little lark, then, tell me why 
You’re so early in the sky? 

You look no bigger than a bee, 
In the middle of the blue; 

Up above the poplar tree, 

I can hardly look at you: 

Little lark, do tell me why 
You are mounted up so high. 

’Tis to watch the silver star, 
Sinking slowly in the skies; 

And beyond the mountain far, 
See the glorious sun arise: 

Little lady, this is why 
I am mounted up so high. 

’Tis to sing a merry song 

To the pleasant morning light; 

Why stay in my nest so long, 
When the sun is shining bright? 

Little lady, this is why 
I sing so early in the sky. 

To the little birds below, 

I do sing a merry tune; 

And I let the plowman know 
He must come to labor soon. 

Little lady, this is why 
I am singing in the sky. 


CHAPTER FOUR 


Robert Louis Stevenson 

The mere fact that a poet loves children does not qualify 
him for the pleasant occupation of writing for children. 
He must have the rare power of tracing the sinuous paths 
back from manhood to infancy. He must carry into the 
interests and activities of childhood the mature qualities 
of mind and heart. If he is to be a poet for children, he must 
have the childish outlook on life and the ripened powers of 
the artist. 

In this respect Robert Louis Stevenson is chief among 
children’s poets. I know of no writer, man or woman, who 
has succeeded so well in carrying over into maturity the lov-^ 
able qualities of childhood. “I am one of the few people 
in the world,” he states, “who do not forget their own lives.” 
Stevenson was never one to ignore any fact or experience 
of his life, and all of his experiences were significant to 
him. “It is long ere we discover how rich we are,” Emerson 
says. “But our wiser years still run back to the despised 
recollections of childhood, and always we are fishing up some 
wonderful article out of that pond.” 

Stevenson was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, in 1850. In 
his second year he suffered a severe attack of croup, and 
this, coupled with an hereditary weakness of lungs and throat, 
led to a series of attacks of chills, pneumonia, and bronchitis. 
From this he never recovered: the remainder of his life was 
a struggle against tuberculosis. There was only one conso¬ 
lation: his serious and protracted illness brought into his 
life his nurse, “Cummie,” remembered so fondly and im¬ 
mortalized so securely in the prose and verse of R. L. S. 

68 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


69 


His illness made steady schooling impossible. * But travel 
on the Continent with his mother, the acquisition of other lan¬ 
guages, and an ever-increasing passion for reading and writ¬ 
ing filled his life. When he entered the University of Edin¬ 
burgh, he was already imbued with the ambition to become 
an author and had tried his ’prentice hand on many different 
kinds of writing. Acting on the wish of his father, an 
engineer and a famous builder of lighthouses, Louis studied 
engineering. But the demands of literature were too strong 
to be resisted; engineering was given up. 

Soon afterwards he met in France an American lady, Mrs. 
Osbourne, with whom he fell in love, and when she re¬ 
turned to her home in California, he soon followed. There 
they were married. From this time on he was definitely 
and forever a man of letters. Sketches, short stories, poems, 
and romances came in rapid succession. 

Three years after his marriage Stevenson established his 
family in the south of France, where they lived until his 
physician advised a change of climate. They tried the Adi- 
rondacks in New York, then, chartering a yacht, went for 
long cruises through the islands of the South Seas, searching 
for health. In 1890 he settled down in Samoa, and there, 
in 1894, he died, mourned by the entire English-reading 
world. 

A Child's Garden of Verses was published in 1885. 
Mr. Graham Balfour tells us that it was prompted by the 
verses in Kate Greenaway’s Birthday Book: “Louis took 
the Birthday Book up one day, and saying, These are rather 
nice rhymes, and I don’t think they would be very difficult 
to do,’ proceeded to try his hand.” But he dedicated A 
Child's Garden to Cummie, his old nurse, because, as he says, 
she was the only one who would understand the poems 


70 


The Childrens Poets 


which certainly implies that they represent thoughts and 
scenes and incidents in his own early life. 

Stevenson’s complete poems are to be found in Poems and 
Ballads , published by Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York. 
This volume contains all the child poems, under the general 
title A Child's Garden of Verses. There are many other 
editions. 

Analysis of his sixty poems reveals five themes. 

(1) Bed-land. Stevenson’s continued illness tied him to 
his bed almost constantly from infancy to adolescence; 
naturally, his poems of childhood are reminiscent of the 
sickroom. But the Bed-land of his poems is not in the least 
reminiscent of childish suffering. The bed is a boat in 
which he travels to strange countries, in which he discovers 
the Northwest Passage to the Delectable Land. The universe 
he inhabits during that delightful time just before he drops 
off to sleep, is much more fascinating than the wideawake 
world. Here is a poem on that theme. 

YOUNG NIGHT THOUGHT 

All night long and every night, 

When my mamma puts out the light, 

I see the people marching by, 

As plain as day, before my eye. 

Armies and emperors and kings, 

All carrying different kinds of things, 

And marching in so grand a Way, 

You never saw the like by day. 

So fine a show was never seen 
At the great circus on the green; 

For every kind of beast and man 
Is marching in that caravan. 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


71 


At first they move a little slow, 

But still the faster on they go, 

And still beside them close I keep 
Until we reach the town of sleep. 

Another poetic exposition of the same subject, the child’s 
travels in dreamland, is this: 

THE LAND OF NOD 

From breakfast on through all the day 
At home among my friends I stay, 

But every night I go abroad 
Afar into the Land of Nod. 

All by myself I have to go, 

With none to tell me what to do— 

All alone beside the streams 

And up the mountain-sides of dreams. 

The strangest things are there for me, 

Both things to eat and things to see, 

And many frightening sights abroad 
Till morning in the Land of Nod. 

Try as I like to find the way, 

I never can get back by day, 

Nor can remember plain and clear 
The curious music that I hear. 

Even when he must lie abed all day long, Bed-land is still 
a delightful country. Here is how he pictures it: 

THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE 

When I was sick and lay abed, 

I had two pillows at my head 
And all my toys beside me lay 
To keep me happy all the day. 


72 


The Children's Poets 


And sometimes for an hour or so 
I watched my leaden soldiers go, 

With different uniforms and drills, 

Among the bed-clothes, through the hills. 

And sometimes sent my ships in fleets 
All up and down among the sheets; 

Or brought my trees and houses out, 

And planted cities all about. 

I was the giant great and still 
That sits upon the pillow-hill, 

And sees before him, dale and plain, 

The pleasant Land of Counterpane. 

(2) Water in Motion . Stevenson loves to sing of rain, of 
running water, of the sea. The babble of a brook or the 
mighty symphony of the sea sets his senses stirring. And 
no poet has more clearly suggested the music of running 
water than has Stevenson in his Looking-Glass River. 
Notice the smooth-gliding, soft-gliding liquids: 

Smooth it slides upon its travel, 

Here a wimple, there a gleam— 

0 the clean gravel! 

0 the smooth stream! 

Sailing blossoms, silver fishes, 

Paven pools as clear as air— 

How a child wishes 
To live down there! 

We can see our colored faces 
Fluating on the shaken pool 
Down in cool places, 

Dim and very cool; 

Till a wind or water wrinkle, 

Dripping marten, plumping trout, 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


73 


Spreads in a twinkle 
And blots all out. 

See the rings pursue each other; 

All below grows black as night, 

Just as if mother 
Had blown out the light! 

Patience, children, just a minute— 

See the spreading circles die; 

The stream and all in it 
Will clear by and by. 

(3) The Weather and the Seasons. Our author takes at 
once a poet’s and a child’s delight in the changes of the 
weather and the panorama of the seasons. The winds, the 
skies, the moon and sun, the phenomena of winter and of 
summer—of these he sings, simply and musically. I quote 
the familiar ppem Windy Nights. Read it aloud and ob¬ 
serve the rhythmic gallop of the verses, wonderfully sug¬ 
gestive of the theme. 

Whenever the moon and stars are set, 

Whenever the wind is high, 

All night long in the dark and wet, 

A man goes riding by. 

Late in the night when the fires are out, 

Why does he gallop and gallop about? 

Whenever the trees are crying aloud, 

And the ships are tossed at sea, 

By, on the highway, low and loud, 

By at the gallop goes he. 

By at the gallop he goes, and then 
By he comes back at the gallop again. 

(4) Travel. “Imaginative” travel would describe this 
group better. Every child should, by all rights, have his 


74 


The Children's Poets 


home near a stream, a road, a railroad—some outlet to the 
world—to provide an accessible avenue for his imagination 
to travel over. The child in the Garden has many such 
routes. As he clambers to the top of the cherry tree or 
swings out over the garden wall, he obtains alluring glimpses 
of the great world; as he observes the sun tracing his journey 
overhead, he in fancy travels with it around the globe; or as 
he watches the brook carry away his little boat, he allows 
his mind to drift with it down the stream. 

WHERE GO THE BOATS? 

Dark brown is the river, 

Golden is the sand. 

It flows along forever, 

With trees on either hand. 

Green leaves a-floating, 

Castles of the foam, 

Boats of mine a-boating— 

Where will all come home? 

On goes the river 

And out past the mill, 

Away down the valley, 

Away down the hill. 

Away down the river, 

A hundred miles or more, 

Other little children 

Shall bring my boats ashore. 

Perhaps he takes a trip by rail, and, like any other child, 
presses his face against the window to follow the kaleido¬ 
scopic view without. Notice in the poem From a Railway 
Carriage the rattle and dash of the train; it is almost as un¬ 
forgettable as Mark Twain’s famous jingle, Punch, Brothers , 
Punch. 


Robert Louis Stevenson 75 

Faster than fairies, faster than witches, 

Bridges and houses, hedges and ditches; 

And charging along like troops in a battle, 

All through the meadows the horses and cattle: 

All of the sights of the hill and the plain 
Fly as thick as driving rain; 

And ever again, in the wink of an eye, 

Painted stations whistle by. 

Here is a child who clambers and scrambles, 

All by himself and gathering brambles; 

Here is a tramp who stands and gazes; 

And there is the green for stringing the daisies! 

Here is a cart run away in the road 
Lumping along with man and load; 

And here is a mill and there is a river: 

Each a glimpse and gone forever! 

Later in life Stevenson became a traveler indeed, a veri¬ 
table globe-trotter, the kind of traveler who could direct his 
friends to Samoa by some such advice as “Take the boat at 
San Francisco and get off at the nearest stop to the left.” 
But it is doubtful if any voyage, even with a donkey, ever 
gave him, or gives hi^ readers, greater pleasure than these 
childish imaginative journeys round the world. 

(5) Play. The Child in the Garden is a solitary child. 
Alone with his blocks, he constructs a great city, which he 
peoples with his imagination; sitting by the winter fire, he 
descries therein great armies, or he amuses himself 

Sitting safe in nursery nooks 
Reading picture story-books. 

Or perhaps, while his parents chat about the fire, 

And do not play at anything. 


76 


The Children's Poets 


he takes his toy gun and prowls about among the chairs and 
behind the sofa, pi yin* Indian. Or he chooses a certain 
corner of the garden and there reenacts all the stories he has 
heard. 

Sometimes, however, the child has comoanions. Steven¬ 
son speaks (in A Child's Play in Virginibus Puerisque) of 
the splendid games he had with his cousins. Occasionally a 
“fury of play’’ would control him; and whether alone or with 
some of his numerous cousins, he must always act out what¬ 
ever whim came into his head. Indoor games they are, for 
the most part. The children construct a ship out of back- 
bed-room chairs, provision it with such invaluable cargo as 
drinking water, an apple, and a piece of cake, and scour the 
seas “for days and days.” They find the hay-mow, too, a 
splendid place to play—as thousands of us have discovered, 
I hope. And the clothes-basket out in the tall meadow grass 
—the children jump in and they are pirates! Oh, Pleasant 
Land of Play! Let me quote in this connection the famil¬ 
iar poem, The Land of Story-Books. 

At evening when the lamp is lit, 

Around the fire my parents sit; 

They sit at home and talk and sing, 

And do not play at anything. 

Now, with my little gun, I crawl 
All in the dark along the wall, 

And follow round the forest track 
Away behind the sofa back. 

There, in the night, where none can spy, 

All in my hunter’s camp I lie, 

And play at books that I have read 
Till it is time to go to bed. 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


77 


These are the hills, these are the woods, 

These are my starry solitudes; 

And there the river by whose brink 
The roaring lions come to drink. 

I see the others far away 
As if in fire-lit camp they lay, 

And I, like to an Indian scout, 

Around their party prowled about. 

So, when my nurse comes in for me, 

Home I return across the sea, 

And go to bed with backward looks 
At my dear Land of Story-books. 

In his poems for children, Stevenson rarely tries to 
moralize. To be sure, he occasionally delivers a morsel of 
advice; but watch his face closely and you may observe his 
eyes twinkle. I once heard a serious-minded person teaching 
Stevenson’s Good and Bad Children as a sermon in rhyme! 
Imagine trying to teach this seriously: 

Children, you are very little, 

And your bones are very brittle; 

If you would grow great and stately, 

You must try to walk sedately. 

No, Stevenson is only fooling; this is only his Chaucerian 
archness, only a gentle satire on the homiletic verses for 
children, so common till his day. Stevenson does not talk 
down to children or preach up to children. All the ethics 
this poet teaches them is expressed in the last verse of the 
following stanza: 

A child should always say what’s true, 

And speak when he is spoken to, 

And behave mannerly at table— 

At least as far as he is able. 


78 


The Children's Poets 


Now and then. Stevenson’s fun interferes with the verisi¬ 
militude of the poems as documents of childhood experience. 
No sensitive adult can read The Cow without exquisite enjoy¬ 
ment of the drollery in such lines as “She gives us cream 
with all her might ” or 

She walks among the meadow grass 
And eats the meadow flowers, 

whereas this merely disturbs the child. The rest of the poem 
is so evidently literal and serious that the young reader is 
inclined rather to quarrel with the inaccuracy than to smile 
at the joke. 

That which makes Robert Louis Stevenson the greatest of 
children’s poets is his wonderful power of identifying him¬ 
self with the child; his simplicity; his genuine lyric power; 
his exquisite workmanship; his hatred of cant; and his un¬ 
quenchable optimism. What a life was his! Beset from 
his very birth by consumption, fleeing hither and yon in the 
vain hope of escaping his hereditary foe, writing often on the 
couch of sickness, so weak that he could scarcely grasp his 
pen, and dying at last at the age of forty-four on a remote 
island where he had fortified himself for one last stand— 
never did a weak thought, a whimpering sentiment, a morbid 
fancy, find utterance. No “idle singer of an empty day” 
did he consider himself; he faced the world bravely, lived a 
simple, strenuous life, enjoyed his friends, extracted the ut¬ 
termost of enjoyment from each day. What inspiration in 
words like these: 

Leave not, my soul, the unfoughten field, nor leave 
Thy debts dishonored, nor thy place desert 
Without due service rendered. For thy life, 

Up, spirit, and defend that fort of clay, 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


79 ' 


Thy body, now beleaguered; whether soon 
Or late she fall; whether today thy friends 
Bewail thee dead, or, after years, a man 
Grown old in honor and the friends of peace. 

Contend, my soul, for moments and for hours; 

Each is with service pregnant; each reclaimed 
Is as a kingdom conquered, where to reign. 

This is a stanza of the requiem he wrote for himself: 

Under the wide and starry sky, 

Dig the grave and let me lie; 

Glad did I live and gladly die, 

And I laid me down with a will. 

And this a prayer: 

If I have faltered more or less 
In my great task of happiness; 

If I have moved along my race 
And shown no glorious morning face; 

If beams from happy human eyes 
Have moved me not; if morning skies, 

Books, and my food, and summer rain, 

Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:— 

Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take 
And stab my spirit broad awake; 

Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, 

Choose Thou, before that spirit die, 

A piercing pain, a killing sin, 

And to my dead heart run them in! 

Stevenson expresses his philosophy in prose: There is an 
idea abroad among moral people that they should make their 
neighbors good. One person I have to make good: myself. 
But my duty to my neighbor is much more nearly expressed 
by saying that I have to make him happy—if I may.” 


80 


The Children s Poets 

SELECTIONS FROM ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 


TO ALISON CUNNINGHAM 

From, Her Boy 

For the long nights you lay awake 
And watched for my unworthy sake: 

For your most comfortable hand 

That led me through the uneven land: 

For all the story-books you read: 

For all the pains you comforted: 

For all you pitied, all you bore, 

In sad and happy days of yore:— 

My second Mother, my first Wife, 

The angel of my infant life— 

From the sick child, now well and old, 

Take, nurse, the little book you hold! 

And grant it, Heaven, that all who read 
May find as dear a nurse at need, 

And every child who lists my rhyme, 

In the bright, fireside, nursery clime, 

May hear it in as kind a voice 
As made my childish days rejoice. 

MY SHADOW 

I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me, 

And what can be the use of him is more than I can see. 

He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head; 

And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. 

The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow— 
Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow; 
For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, 
And he sometimes gets so little that there’s none of him at all 

He hasn’t got a notion of how children ought to play, 

And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


81 


He stays so close beside me, he’s a coward you can see; 

I’d think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me! 

One morning, very early, before the sun was up, 

I rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup; 

But my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head, 

Had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed. 

THE LAMPLIGHTER ^ 

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky; 

It’s time to take the window to see Leerie going by; 

For every night at tea-time and before you take your seat, 
With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street. 

Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea, 

And my papa’s a banker and as rich as he can be; 

But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I’m to do, 

0 Leerie, I’ll go round at night and light the lamps with you! 

For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, 

And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more; 

And oh! before you hurry by with ladder and with light; 

O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him tonight! 

RAIN 

The rain is raining all around, 

It falls on field and tree, 

It rains on the umbrellas here, 

And on the ships at sea. 

BLOCK CITY 

What are you able to build with your blocks? 

Castles and palaces, temples and docks. 

Rain may keep raining, and others go roam, 

But I can be happy and building at home. 

Let the sofa be mountains, the carpet be sea, 

There I’ll establish a city for me: 


82 


The Children's Poets 


A kirk and a mill and a palace beside, 

And a harbor as well where my vessels may ride. 

Great is the palace with pillar and wall, 

A sort of a tower on the top of it all, 

And steps coming down in an orderly way 
To where my toy vessels lie safe in the bay. 

This one is sailing and that one is moored: 
Hark to the song of the sailors on board! 

And see, on the steps of my palace, the kings 
Coming and going with presents and things! 

Now I have done with it, down let it go! 

All in a moment the town is laid low. 

Block upon block lying scattered and free, 
What is there left of my town by the sea? 

Yet as I saw it, I see it again, 

The kirk and the palace, the ships and the men, 
And as long as I live and where’er I may be, 

I’ll always remember my town by the sea. 


THE FLOWERS 

All the names I know from nurse: 
Gardener’s garters, Shepherd’s purse, 
Bachelor’s buttons, Lady’s smock, 

And the Lady Hollyhock. 

Fairy places, fairy things, 

Fairy woods where the wild bee wings, 
Tiny trees for tiny dames— 

These must all be fairy names! 

Tiny woods below whose boughs 
Shady fairies weave a house; 

Tiny tree-tops, rose or thyme, 

Where the braver fairies climb! 


Robert Louis Stevenson 

Fair are grown-up people’s trees, 

But the fairest woods are these; 

Where, if I were not so tall, 

I should live for good and all. 

TO 4UNTIE 

Chief of our aunts —not only I, 

But all your dozen of nurselings cry— 
What did the other children do? 

And what were childhood, wanting you 

TRAVEL 

I should like to rise and go 
Where the golden apples grow;— 
Where below another sky 
Parrot islands anchored lie, 

And, watched by cockatoos and goats, 
Lonely Crusoes building boats;— 
Where in sunshine reaching out 
Eastern cities, miles about, 

Are with mosque and minaret 
Among sandy gardens set, 

And the rich goods from near and far 
Hang for sale in the bazaar;— 

Where the Great Wall round China goes, 
And on one side the desert blows, 

And with bell and voice and drum, 
Cities on the other hum;— 

Where are forests, hot as fire, 

Wide as England, tall as a spire, 

Full of apes and cocoa-nuts 
And the negro hunters’ huts;— 

Where the knotty crocodile 
Lies and blinks in the Nile, 

And the red flamingo flies 
Hunting fish before his eyes;— 

Where in jungles, near and far, 
Man-devouring tigers are, 



The Children's Poets 


Lying close and giving ear 
Lest the hunt be drawing near, 

Or a comer-by be seen 
Swinging in a palanquin;— 

Where among the desert sands 
Some deserted city stands, 

All its children, sweep and prince, 
Grown to manhood ages since, 

Not a foot in street or house, 

Not a stir of child or mouse, 

And when kindly falls the night, 
In all the town no spark of light, 
There I’ll come when I’m a man 
With a camel caravan; 

Light a fire in the gloom 
Of some dusty dining room; 

See the pictures on the walls, 
Heroes, fights, and festivals; 

And in a corner find the toys 
Of the old Egyptian boys. 


AUTUMN FIRES 

In the other gardens 
And all up the vale, 

From the autumn bonfires 
See the smoke trail! 

Pleasant summer over 

And all the summer flowers, 
The red fire blazes, 

The gray smoke towers. 

Sing a song of seasons! 

Something bright in all! 
Flowers in the summer, 

Fires in the fall! 


Robert Louis Stevenson 


85 


TO ANY READER 

As from the house your mother sees 
You playing round the garden trees, 
So you may see, if you will look 
Through the windows of this book, 
Another child, far, far away, 

And in another garden, play. 

But do not think you can at all, 

By knocking on the window, call 
That child to hear you. He intent 
Is all on his play-business bent. 

He does not hear; he will not look, 
Nor yet be lured out of this book. 
For, long ago, the truth to say 
He has grown up and gone away, 
And it is but a child of arr 

That lingers in the garden there. 


CHAPTER FIVE 


William Blake 

William Blake, the morning star that preluded the dawn 
of the Romantic Revival, one of the most picturesque figures 
in English literature and art, an inspired lyric poet, displays 
in no more striking way the brilliance and uniqueness of his 
genius than in the poems he wrote for children. There are 
not many of these poems, nor did he have the good fortune, 
as did Jane and Ann Taylor, as did Robert Louis Stevenson, 
to found a school of children’s poetry; nevertheless he is one 
of the most important bards of childhood. 

Those events of Blake’s life which are of interest to us are 
easily set forth. He was born in London in 1757, the second 
child in a family of five. His father was a hosier, able to 
give his children but a meager education. William dis¬ 
played talent for drawing very early in life, and had his 
father’s means sufficed, he would doubtless have taken up 
painting as a career. As it was, he was apprenticed to an 
engraver, and engraving was, all through his life, his means 
of livelihood. He married, in 1782, Catharine Boucher, 
with whom he had as happy a married life as a man of 
Blake’s peculiar temperament could have had. 

His first volume of poetry, Poetical Sketches , was pub¬ 
lished in 1783. In 1787 appeared Songs of Innocence , and 
in 1794 Songs of Experience , the two little volumes upon 
which Blake’s fame as a children’s poet rests. Blake wrote 
the verses, made the drawings, engraved both on copper, 
made the plates, printed the pages on a hand press, and 
bound them together—literally made the book. 

Of his quarrels and his poverty, of his increasing absorp- 

86 


William Blake 


87 


tion in mysticism and neglect of practical matters, even of 
those relating to his own art, we need not speak. He wrote 
little poetry after 1794, devoting his time to engraving and 
to his “visions” and his “prophecies.” He died in 1827. 

On the Romantic Revival we may touch but lightly here, 
though Blake’s poetry for children is a part of this revival. 
Briefly stated, the Romantic Revival was a return to Nature. 
After a century and a half of Classicism, of conventionalism 
and imitation, of clever prose and fine-spun “head” poetry, 
after the worship of form and finish and artificiality, after 
the wit of Pope and Dryden and the brilliancy of Addison 
and the ponderosity of Johnson, the pendulum begins to 
swing back toward naturalness, toward originality, toward 
the expression of strong, healthy, spontaneous human feeling; 
back to Nature—to flowers and animals, to the sea, the woods, 
the mountains, to love and hate, to real men and women, to 
genuine emotions. Literature once more roots itself in life 
and life’s realities; literature once more is woven out of the 
material that natural, normal life provides. “Let us try,” 
the writers of the period may be thought of as saying, “Let 
us try to discover what are the freshest, the simplest, the 
most attractive and emotion provoking themes of poetry, 
the themes which are at once most closely akin to Nature and 
most susceptible of artistic treatment.” Now, what is that 
which excites the keenest, most exquisite feelings, which is 
most fascinating and romantic, which bears the most authen¬ 
tic stamp of Nature? The child and childhood. One of the 
most revolutionary discoveries made by the Romanticists was 
that children and childhood are among the finest subjects of 
poetry. And, from the time of Blake and Wordsworth to the 
present, few poets have failed to touch upon child life, 
whereas before that day no poets except Watts and Henry 


88 


The Children's Poets 


Vaughan and a few others had conceived of poetry for chil¬ 
dren or poetry about children. 

It was William Blake that made this discovery. His Songs 
of Innocence appeared in 1787; his Songs of Experience 
seven years later—which was four years before Wordsworth 
wrote his first poem about children, We are Seven. Blake 
had no children of his own, but he loved children and re¬ 
garded them as the most beautiful and most mysterious of 
all creatures. He had, like Vaughan and Wordsworth, vague 
ideas about a previous existencehe conceived of childhood 
as “appareled in celestial light ' and of children as “trailing 
clouds of glory” as they come from their home in 
heaven. Later, “shades of the prison-house begin to close 
upon” them; or, as Blake himself expresses it, 

When thy little heart doth wake, 

Then the dreadful light shall break. 

It is interesting to see how the poems in the two groups, 
Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience, pair off with 
each other, the companion piece in the second group sound¬ 
ing a sad and solemn echo to the songs of “pleasant glee,” 
of “merry cheer,” in the first group. Compare, as illus¬ 
trating this contrast, the Nurse’s Song from the first book 
with that from the second. 


nurse’s song 

(From Songs of Innocence) 

When the voices of children are heard on the green, 
And laughing is heard on the hill, 

My heart is at rest within my breast, 

And everything else is still. 


William Blake 


89 


“Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, 

And the dews of night arise; 

Come, come, leave off play, and let us away, 

Till the morning appears in the skies.” 

“No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, 

And we cannot go to sleep; 

Besides, in the sky the little birds fly, 

And the hills are all covered with sheep.” 

“Well, well, go and play till the light fades away 
And then go home to bed.” 

The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed, 

And all the hills echoed. 

nurse’s song 

(From Songs of Experience) 

When the voices of children are heard on the green, 

And whisperings are in the dale, 

The days of my youth rise fresh in my mind, 

My face turns green and pale. 

Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down, 

And the dews of night arise; 

Your spring and your day are wasted in play, 

And your winter and night in disguise. 

It is doubtful if Blake intended his childhood songs for 
children. He appears to have had no specific child or 
children in mind; he does not use a diction or style materi¬ 
ally different from that which he employs in his other poetry; 
and he seems to make little effort to get the point of view of 
children of his acquaintance. If I understand Blake, he 
would have disdained all this—which is a part of the stock 
in trade of most children’s writers. He does select themes 
that appeal to children, and in general his treatment and style 
are admirable for the creation of children’s poetry. But 


90 


The Children's Poets 


this is a nappy accident. It would seem that Blake was in¬ 
spired to sing his childhood songs by the intuitive perception 
that children and childhood are felicitous and appropriate 
subjects for his melodies; and he was guided by his innate 
understanding of children, by the dim but fascinating mem¬ 
ories of his own infancy, and by the Platonic conception that 
children have had a previous existence in a happier world, 
that their first stage is innocence and faith, which gradually 
gives way to evil and disillusionment. Under the spell of this 
inspiration and led by these principles, Blake produced 
twenty or thirty poems that are masterpieces of verse for 
children. It happened because Blake was Blake, and be¬ 
cause Blake was born at an opportune time. 

The introductory poem to Songs of Innocence expresses 
Blake’s point of view under a charming symbolism. As the 
poet is “piping down the valleys wild,” he sees a child upon 
a cloud. The child asks him to pipe a song about a lamb, 
so the poet weaves this into his melody. Then he is asked 
to sing his songs, finally to write them. For this the poet 
uses the simplest implement, a reed pen dipped in stained 
water. 

Blake’s art is wholly a matter of intuition, of inspiration, 
of following guidance from above. This was always his 
way. He set up the most extravagant claims of direct super¬ 
natural inspiration. He averred that he had prophetic 
powers, that he was “under the direction of messengers from 
heaven, daily and nightly”; he speaks of one of his poems, 
Jerusalem, as having been written “from immediate dicta¬ 
tion, without premeditation and even against my will.” 

Whatever may be the truth about this puzzling matter, it 
is certain that Blake was not a conscious, deliberating, 
theorizing bard. He did not attempt to guide Pegasus with 


William Blake 


91 


a checkrein. Moved by a compelling impulse—from within 
or from without—he yielded himself to this power and per¬ 
mitted it to bear him whither it would. 

This accounts, of course, for the effect of spontaneity 
so noticeable in Blake’s poetry. His choicest verses—gen¬ 
uine “native wood-notes wild”—have a perfection of form 
as if the words had been conjured into their proper places 
by a kind of poetic legerdemain—“dictated” to him, as he 
says; or as if the lucky poet had “found” the entire poem 
in one of his piping excursions “down the valleys wild,” 
found it fixed in unalterable, inevitable form; genuine 
“underwoods,” not a “plantation.” It accounts, too, for 
the clear singing note in Blake’s best poetry: they were songs 
before they were poems. Of all the children’s poets Blake 
has the most exquisite lyric power. It is interesting to note 
that Blake, though ignorant of formal music, set some of his 
poems to melodies of his own, which, according to one of 
his friends, were singularly beautiful. 

Blake’s poetry for children is characterized by extreme 
simplicity—simplicity of thought, simplicity of phrase. Col¬ 
lins, in his beautiful ode, calls simplicity “sister meek of 
Truth.” And so it is: and nowhere is the presence of 
this meek sister so desirable as it is in children’s poetry. 

In his children’s poems, Blake has true simplicity to a 
remarkable degree. He never deals with the complicated; 
his emotions are elemental, primordial. Moreover, his ex¬ 
pression is as simple as the thought, as it needs must be in 
all real literature. “The great artist is the simplifier,” says 
Amiel. 

Sir Joshua Reynolds once told Blake that he should paint 
with less extravagance and more simplicity. Perhaps that 
criticism of Blake’s painting was just, though Blake bitterly 


92 


The Children's Poets 


resented it; it is not at all just with regard to his writing , 
—at least in his children’s poetry. Of course, Blake was 
“of imagination all compact”; but he “bodies forth the forms 
of things unknown” concretely, graphically. 

For Blake was a painter as well as a poet, and most of his 
poems are full of pictures: colors, forms, outlines, grouping, 
all distinct and clear-cut. Observe in the following poems 
how vivid are the pictures. 

LAUGHING SONG 

When the green woods laugh with the voice of joy, 

And the dimpling stream runs laughing by; 

When the air does laugh with our merry wit, 

And the green hill laughs with the noise of it; 

When the meadows laugh with lively green, 

And the grasshopper laughs in the lively scene; 

When Mary and Susan and Emily 

With their sweet round mouths sing “Ha ha he!” 

When the painted birds laugh in the shade, 

Where our table with cherries and nuts is spread; 

Come live, and be merry, and join with me, 

To sing the sweet chorus of “Ha ha he!” 

THE ECHOING GREEN 

The sun does arise 
And make happy the skies; 

The merry bells ring, 

To welcome the Spring; 

The skylark and thrush, 

The birds of the bush, 

Sing louder around 

To the bells’ cheerful sound; 

While our sports shall be seen 
On the echoing green. 


William Blake 


93 


Old John, with white hair. 

Does laugh away care, 

Sitting under the oak, 

Among the old folk. 

They laugh at our play, 

And soon they all say, 

“Such, such were the joys 
When we all—girls and boys— 
In our youth-time were seen 
On the echoing green.” 


Till the little ones, weary, 

No more can be merry: 

The sun does descend, 

And our sports have an end. 

Round the laps of their mothers 
Many sisters and brothers, 

Like birds in their nest, 

Are ready for rest, 

And sport no more seen 
On the darkening green. 

I have spoken of Blake’s imagination, but perhaps I should 
recur to it for a moment, as this is one of Blake’s predominant 
qualities. Of imagination Blake had much to say. He 
expresses himself with characteristic vigor: “He who does 
not imagine in stronger and better lineaments and in stronger 
and better light than his perishing mortal eye can see, does 
not imagine at all.” Blake is the most imaginative of all 
children’s poets. In the following poem note the central 
concept of the angels hovering about to make sure that all 
innocent and helpless beings are safe for the night; note 
the comparison of the moon to a flower, in the first stanza, 
a comparison which is not injured in the least by the state¬ 
ment that this flower “Sits and smiles on the night”; note 
the remarkable figure in the last two lines of the poem, 


94 


The Children's Poets 


“They pour sleep,” the most imaginative metaphor in the 
whole range of children’s poetry, suggesting, as it does, both 
the anointing of one’s head with oil and the beautiful rite of 
baptism. 

NIGHT 

The sun descending in the west, 

The evening star does shine; 

The birds are silent in their nest, 

And I must seek for mine. 

The moon, like a flower 
In heaven’s high bower, 

With silent delight, 

Sits and smiles on the night. 

Farewell, green field and happy grove, 

Where flocks have ta’en delight. 

Where lambs have nibbled, silent move 
The feet of angels bright. 

Unseen, they pour blessing, 

And joy without ceasing, 

On each bud and blossom, 

And each sleeping bosom. 

They look in every thoughtless nest 
Where birds are covered warm; 

They visit caves of every beast, 

To keep them all from harm; 

If they see any weeping 
That should have been sleeping, 

They pour sleep on their head, 

And sit down by their bed. 

In the well-known poem that follows note both the daring 
of the imagination and the picture-like clarity of the phrases. 
(I quote the poem as it appears in Alexander Gilchrist’s 
Life; the emendations, apparently made on Blake's authority, 
are decided improvements over the original version, in Songs 
of Experience .) 


William Blake 


95 


THE TIGER 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Framed thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burned that fire within thine eyes? 

On what wings dared he aspire? 

What the hand dared seize the fire? 

And what shoulder and what art 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 

When thy dread heart began to beat, 

What dread hand formed thy dread feet? 

What the hammer, what the chain, 

Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? 

What the anvil? What dread grasp 
Dared thy deadly terrors clasp? 

When the stars threw down their spears, 

And watered heaven with their tears, 

Did He smile his work to see? 

Did He who made the lamb make thee? 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Dared frame thy fearful symmetry? 

But there are no tigers in Songs of Innocence . The child 
on the cloud wishes to hear a song about a lamb, and the 
lamb, obedient little animal, duly appears in most of the 
songs in Innocence. Meekest, mildest, most appealing of 
all creatures, it fitly symbolizes the innocence and purity 
of childhood. All the poems in this first series are suffused 


96 


The Children's Poets 


with a tender, delicate sympathy with children, a full recog¬ 
nition of their sweetness, their lovableness, their kinship 
with everything that is beautiful. It is a charming, happy 
atmosphere in which the children of these verses live; it is 
a joyful, idyllic existence they lead. Of course, this is too 
ethereal, too idealistic, too transcendental. Children are not 
the meek and lamb-like beings they are pictured in Songs of 
Innocence, nor would any one desire to nourish children en¬ 
tirely upon this kind of poetry. But this is William Blake’s 
chief contribution to children’s poetry, and it is a contri¬ 
bution as distinctive and as notable as Robert Louis 
Stevenson’s wistful, winsome little boy, Christina Rossetti’s 
delicate little girl, or Mrs. Richards’ family of rollicking 
youngsters. If Blake’s poems are not absolutely true to 
child life in general, they are nevertheless clear visions of 
one phase of child life, and they are among the most ex¬ 
quisite lyrics in the children’s anthology. 

This is W. M. Rossetti’s penetrating analysis of Blake: 
“Some of the little poems included in this series are the most 
perfect expression ever given (so far as I know) to babe- 
life—to what a man can remember of himself as an infant, 
ox can enter into as existing in other infants, or can love as 
of the essence of infancy.” 

A dainty edition of Songs of Innocence and Songs of Ex¬ 
perience, in one volume, is issued by G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 
New York. 


William Blake 


97 


SELECTIONS FROM WILLIAM BLAKE 

INTRODUCTION 

Piping down the valleys wild, 

Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a cloud I saw a child, 

And he laughing said to me: 

“Pipe a song about a Lamb!” 

So I piped with merry cheer. 
“Piper, pipe that song again”; 

So I piped: he wept to hear. 

“Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; 

Sing thy songs of happy cheer!” 

So I sang the same again, 

While he wept with joy to hear. 

“Piper, sit thee down and write 
In a book that all may read.” 

So he vanished from my sight; 

And I plucked a hollow reed, 

And I made a rural pen, 

And I stained the water clear, 

And I wrote my happy songs 
Every child may joy to hear. 

THE LAMB 

Little lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee, 
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed 
By the stream and o’er the mead; 

Gave thee clothing of delight, 

Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 

Gave thee such a tender voice, 

Making all the vales rejoice? 

Little lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 


98 


The Children’s Poets 


Little lamb, I’ll tell thee; 
Little lamb, I’ll tell thee: 
He is called by thy name, 

For He calls Himself a Lamb. 
He is meek, and He is mild, 

He became a little child. 

I a child, and thou a lamb, 

We are called by his name. 

Little lamb, God bless thee! 
Little lamb, God bless thee! 


INFANT JOY 

“I have no name; 

I am but two days old.” 
What shall I call thee? 

“I happy am, 

Joy is my name.” 

Sweet joy befall thee! 

Pretty joy! 

Sweet joy but two days old. 
Sweet joy I call thee! 

Thou dost smile, 

I sing the while; 

Sweet joy befall thee! 


SPRING 

Sound the flute! 

Now it’s mute! 

Birds delight, 

Day and night, 

Nightingale, 

In the dale, 

Lark in sky,— 

Merrily, 

Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year. 


William Blake 


99 


Little boy, 

Full of joy, 

Little girl, 

Sweet and small; 

Cock does crow, 

So do you; 

Merry voice, 

Infant noise, 

Merrily, merrily we welcome in the year. 

Little lamb, 

Here I am; 

Come and lick 
My white neck; 

Let me pull 
Your soft wool; 

Let me kiss 
Your soft face; 

Merrily, merrily we welcome in the year. 

A CRADLE SONG 

Sweet dreams, form a shade 
O’er my lovely infant’s head! 

Sweet dreams of pleasant streams 
By happy, silent, moony beams! 

Sweet Sleep, with soft down 
Weave thy brows an infant crown! 
Sweet Sleep, angel mild, 

Hover o’er my happy child! 

Sweet smiles, in the night 
Hover over my delight! 

Sweet smiles, mother’s smiles, 

All the livelong night beguiles. 

Sweet moans, dovelike sighs, 

Chase not slumber from thine eyes! 
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, 

All the dovelike moans beguiles. 


100 


The Children's Poets 


Sleep, sleep, happy child! 

All creation slept and smiled. 

Sleep, sleep, happy sleep, 

While o’er thee thy mother weep. 

Sweet babe, in thy face 
Holy image I can trace; 

Sweet babe, once like thee 
Thy Maker lay, and wept for me: 

Wept for me, for thee, for all, 

When He was an infant small. 

Thou His image ever see, 

Heavenly face that smiles on thee! 

Smiles on thee, on me, on all, 

Who became an infant small; 

Infant smiles are his own smiles; 
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. 

THE LITTLE BOY LOST 

“Father, father, where are you going? 

0 do not walk so fast! 

Speak, father, speak to your little boy, 

Or else I shall be lost.” 

The night was dark, no father was there, 
The child was wet with dew; 

The mire was deep, and the child did weep, 
And away the vapor flew. 

THE LITTLE BOY FOUND 

The little boy lost in the lonely fen, 

Led by the wandering light, 

Began to cry, but God, ever nigh, 

Appeared like his father, in white. 

He kissed the child, and by the hand led, 
And to his mother brought, 


William Blake 


101 


Who in sorrow pale, through the lonely dale, 
Her little boy weeping sought. 

THE SHEPHERD 

How sweet is the- shepherd’s sweet lot! 

From the morn to the evening he strays; 

He shall follow his sheep all the day, 

And his tongue shall be filled with praise. 

For he hears the lambs’ innocent call, 

And he hears the ewes’ tender reply; 

He is watchful while they are in peace, 

For they know when their shepherd is nigh. 

on another’s sorrow 

Can I see another’s woe, 

And not be in sorrow too? 

Can I see another’s grief, 

And not seek for kind relief? 

Can I see a falling tear, 

And not feel my sorrow’s share? 

Can a father see his child 
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? 

Can a mother sit and hear 
An infant groan, an infant fear? 

No, no! never can it be! 

Never, never can it be! 

And can He who smiles on all 
Hear the wren with sorrows small, 

Hear the small bird’s grief and care, 
Hear the woes that infants bear— 

And not sit beside the nest, 

Pouring pity in their breast, 

And not sit the cradle near, 

Weeping tear on infant’s tear? 


102 


The Children's Poets 


And not sit both night and day, 
Wiping all our tears away? 

0 no! never can it be! 

Never, never can it be! 

He doth give His joy to* all: 

He becomes an infant small, 

He becomes a man of woe, 

He doth feel the sorrow too. 

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, 
And thy Maker is not by: 

Think not thou canst weep a tear, 
And thy Maker is not near. 

0 He gives to us His joy, 

That our grief He may destroy: 
Till our grief is fled and gone 
He doth sit by us and moan. 


CHAPTER SIX 


Christina Rossetti 

Christina Rossetti was a daughter of Gabriele and 
Frances (Polidore) Rossetti. As the name implies, the 
Rossetti family was of Italian origin. Gabriele Rossetti, 
a man of great learning and ability, was a native of the 
kingdom of Naples, who had come to England as a political 
exile in 1824. There he married Frances, daughter of an 
Italian gentleman named Gaetano Polidore. Christina 
Rossetti, their youngest child, was born at London in 1830. 
As she grew up, she developed a strange and wistful beauty. 
‘Lovely’ seems to be the adjective that best describes her. 

As a child Christina was often taken to the country for 
visits to friends and relatives, but when she was about 
seven or eight years old these visits came to an end and 
thereafter, for a long period of her life, she was a prisoner 
of the city streets and windows. For such a singer as 
Christina Rossetti one could have wished the close com¬ 
panionship of country earth and flowers and sky. She 
should early have known the wild Highland glens, the 
Yorkshire moors, and the English lakes. She should have 
been translated to the soft coast of Devon or carried back 
to the clear skies of Italy. 

Christina began to write early, her first verses having 
been composed at the age of ten years. Beginning thus 
early, our poet wrote continuously during the greater part of 
her life, and the collected edition of her poems contains no 
fewer than nine hundred and ninety-six titles. 

During her lifetime, Miss Rossetti published six volumes, 
one of which, Sing-Song, a book of nursery rhymes, is 

103 


104 


The Childrens Poets 


children’s poetry pure and simple. The Sing-Song poems 
were dedicated to “the baby who suggested them’’—the little 
son of Professor Arthur Cayley of Cambridge University 
—and are particularly suitable for little children. In the 
whole realm of children’s literature, it would be difficult to 
find a book more charming. The very titles are full of 
poetic thought and wonder, from Twist me a crown of wind¬ 
flowers, to Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth. 
It was published by Routledge (now Macmillan) in 1872, 
with more than one hundred illustrations by Arthur Hughes. 

Her best poem, the one which will hold her fame secure, 
is Goblin Market. This poem is a fairy tale, concerning 
two sisters, and was dedicated by the poet to her own sister, 
Maria. It is a poem which may be read by children. It is 
full of jangling sounds, gorgeous color, and dramatic action. 
Once read, the opening lines can never be forgotten. 

Morning and evening 
Maids hear the goblins cry: 

“Come buy our orchard fruits, 

Come buy, come buy: 

Apples and quinces, 

Lemons and oranges, 

Plump unpecked cherries, 

Melons and raspberries, 

Bloom-down-cheeked peaches, 

Swart-headed mulberries, 

Wild free-born cranberries, 

Crab-apples, dewberries, 

Pine-apples, blackberries, 

Apricots, strawberries;— 

All ripe together 
In summer weather,— 

Morns that pass by, 

Fair eves that fly; 

Come buy, come buy: 


Christina Rossetti 


105 


Our grapes fresh from the vine, 

Pomegranates full and fine, 

Dates and sharp bullaces, 

Rare pears and greengages, 

Damsons and bilberries, 

Taste them and try: 

Currants and gooseberries, 

Bright-fire-like barberries, 

Figs to fill your mouth, 

Citrons from the South, 

Sweet to tongue and sound to eye; 

Come buy, come buy.” 

In addition to Goblin Market and the poems in Sing- 
Song, Miss Rossetti wrote many other poems that are suitable 
for little folks. Her brother William selected thirty of these, 
but even he did not select them all. One could wish that all 
of her poetry for children could be freed from the general 
collection of her works and published in one volume. Such 
a book would contain Goblin Market; all the poems in Sing- 
Song; the thirty poems selected by William Rossetti, and as 
many others as might be found. It would include Summer; 
the series of Valentines to My Mother; A Christmas Carol 
(For my Godchildren); A Royal Princess; and Eleanor. 

Miss Rossetti suffered greatly from ill-health and was for 
two years a helpless invalid. She never entirely recovered 
and, if she lived almost to the end of the allotted term of 
years, it was largely due to the fact that she led a life of 
great seclusion. She died at . London in 1894. 

I have written somewhat at length upon her life because 
there is no other way of understanding the nature and quality 
of her poetry for children. Now let us look into this poetry, 
limiting ourselves to the one collection, Sing-Song. 

Christina Rossetti has written some of the most tender and 


10G 


The Children's Poets 


musical lullabies in literature. I quote but one; read it aloud 
and notice the exquisitely soft, limpid music. 

Lullaby, oh, lullaby! 

Flowers are closed and lambs are sleeping; 

Lullaby, oh, lullaby! 

Stars are up, the moon is peeping; 

Lullaby, oh, lullaby! 

While the birds are silence keeping, 

Lullaby, oh, lullaby! 

Sleep, my baby, fall a-sleeping, 

Lullaby, oh, lullaby! 

All her slumber-songs are full of such flute-like tones. 

Nowadays we rule out of our poetry-books for children 
all poems on death or other somber themes, on the principle 
poetically expressed by Robert Greene: p 

Weep not, my wanton, smile upon my knee, 

When thou art old there’s grief enough for thee. 

Now, I have no quarrel with the principle: doubtless it is 
sound. But I wonder if occasionally we should not do well 
to teach children some of the most beautiful dirges. It is, 
of course, impossible to hold the attention of the average 
little child to mournful thoughts, even if we so wished; but 
I see no reason why a few child-threnodies should not be 
allowed to sink into the porous young mind, in the belief 
that some day they will rise to the surface in a crystal, 
willow-fringed fountain. And Miss Rossetti’s dirges are 
among the noblest in the language. She sings sincerely and 
naturally of death. Her poems on the death of children are 
almost invariably hopeful and consolatory, at least never 
morbid. One of the most beautiful in Sing-Song is this: 


Christina Rossetti 


107 


Sing me a song— 

What shall I sing?— 

Three merry sisters 
Dancing in a ring, 

Light and fleet upon their feet 
As birds upon the wing. 

Tell me a tale— 

What shall I tell?— 

Two mournful sisters, 

And a tolling knell, 

Tolling ding and tolling dong, 

Ding dong bell. 

It was Poe who declared that “the death of a beautiful woman 
is the most poetical topic in the world.” But surely the 
death of a little child is material quite as poetical—at least, 
it has been the theme and the incentive of some of the most 
beautiful poetry. If the child-dirge is simple in diction and 
thought, musical and suggestive in expression, and devoid of 
sentimentality and graveyard moralizing, as is the above 
poem, it may, without doubt, be offered to a child. 

Another species of poetry we have sacrificed to appease 
the gods of pedagogy is the “moral,” the didactic. We are 
right in that, as a general principle. “Art’s perfect form 
no moral needs,” says Whittier. But childhood is pre¬ 
eminently the period of practicality, of concreteness, and 
the child readily assimilates what he regards as usable. It 
was Matthew Arnold who said that literature satisfies both 
the “sense of beauty” and the “sense of conduct.” Almost 
all great literature culminates not in thedlower of beauty, 
but in the fruit of right-doing. Surely the gist of the whole 
question is the manner in which the ethical is expressed. 
If it is too obvious, or if it is too namby-pamby and Sunday- 
schoolish, the child will have none of it—and I, for one, do 


108 


The Children's Poets 


not blame him. But if the moral is drawn by mere sugges¬ 
tion, by intimations, by figures of speech, if the children are 
led to make their own conclusions and discover the treasure 
trove of wisdom, then surely the so-called “moral” poetry 
is, pedagogically and psychologically, literature for children. 

Now, Miss Rossetti’s collection contains a number of ex¬ 
cellent poems of this type, not at all in the Jane and Ann 
Taylor style. I shall simply quote two from Sing-Song 
and let them justify themselves. 

An emerald is as green as grass; 

A ruby red as blood; 

A sapphire shines as blue as heaven; 

A flint lies in the mud. 

A diamond is a brilliant stone, 

To catch the world’s desire; 

An opal holds a fiery spark; 

But a flint holds fire. 


A toadstool comes up in a night,— 

Learn the lesson, little folk:— 

An oak grows on a hundred years, 

But then it is an oak. 

Miss Rossetti does not sing much of the joys of play and 
of companionship. That the sensitive, precocious girl ever 
indulged in riotous play is very improbable. Perhaps she 
owned pet animals; indeed, she displays in her poems a 
tenderness for the humbler animals that reminds one of 
Robert Burns. She sings of flowers, too, especially of the 
rose; but they are usually cultivated flowers. It may be 
that she occasionally strayed beyond the cloistered precincts 
of her London garden; but when I read most of her lyrics, I 
see the English lady leaning from her study window—would 



Christina Rossetti 


109 


it be too extravagant to call them “magic casements”?— 
gazing down at the garden or up at the stars, or I see her 
pacing decorously among the flower-plots. But let us give 
thanks for what the gods send us. “ ’Tis a wide world, my 
masters; there is room for all”—room for a Byron and his 
love for Nature’s grandeur, room for a Christina Rossetti 
and her love for Nature’s delicate fineness. And let us give 
thanks especially for such poems as this is: 

Growing in the vale, 

By the uplands hilly, 

Growing straight and frail, 

Lady Daffadowndilly. 

In a golden crown, 

And a scant green gown 

While the spring blows chilly, 

Lady Daffydown, 

Sweet Daffydowndilly. 

Our poet makes frequent use of contrast, introducing the 
youthful reader to the unfamiliar by the road over which he 
has often traveled. The following well-known rainbow 
poem illustrates this device: 

Boats sail on the rivers, 

And ships sail on the seas; 

But clouds that sail across the sky 
Are prettier far than these. 

There are bridges on the rivers, 

As pretty as you please; 

But the bow that bridges heaven, 

And overtops the trees, 

And builds a road from earth to sky, 

Is prettier far than these. 

Miss Rossetti, like her brother Dante Gabriel, shows 


110 


The Children's Poets 


marvelous power in painting pictures with words. Here are 
two, from a number that might be quoted. Observe how 
clearly drawn the scenes are. 

Rushes in a watery place, 

And reeds in a hollow; 

A soaring skylark in the sky,. 

A darting swallow; 

And where pale blossoms used to hang 
Ripe fruit to follow. 


A frisky lamb 
And a frisky child 
Playing their pranks 
In a cowslip meadow; 

The sky all blue ' 

And the air all mild 
And the fields all £un 

And the lanes half shadow. 

Miss Rossetti rarely condescends to nonsense jingles. In 
truth, her poetry is seldom light-hearted and high-spirited, 
seldom freely and spontaneously joyous. Often its appeal 
is to the quiet, sensitive girl rather than to the prankish boy. 
But that the poet did have playful moods is attested by the 
following sprightly jingle, which old Mother Goose might 
well claim as hers: 

Mix a pancake, 

Stir a pancake, 

Pop it in the pan; 

Fry the panqake, 

Toss the pancake,— 

Catch it if you can. 

Again, the grotesque humor of Mother Goose is seen in the 
following: 



Christina Rossetti 


111 


If a pig wore a wig, 

What could we say? 

Treat him as a gentleman, 

And say “Good day.” 

If his tail chanced to fail, 

What could we do ? 

Send him to the tailoress 
To get one new. 

And one can detect traces of Mother Goose in this: 

What does the bee do? 

Bring home honey. 

And what does Father do? 

Bring home money. 

And what does Mother do? 

Lay out the money. 

And what does baby do? 

Eat up the honey. 

Sing-Song contains much fine poetry for children. It is 
sincere, tender, simple, imaginative, picturesque, musical; 
and it deals with childish themes in an artistic manner. The 
little volume has taken its proper place in my own affections, 
and it has its proper niche on my shelf of children s 
p 0etry — on the end opposite Mother Goose, Lewis Carroll, 
Edward Lear, and other jocund spirits, and just between 
Robert Louis Stevenson’s Child’s Garden and William Blake’s 
Songs of Innocence. 


112 


The Childrens Poets 

SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 


TO LALLA 

Reading my Verses Topsy-Turvy 

Darling little Cousin, 

With your thoughtful look 

Reading topsy-turvy 
From a printed book. 

English hieroglyphics, 

More mysterious 

To you than Egyptian 
Ones would be to us;— 

Leave off for a minute 
Studying, and say 

What is the impression 
That those marks convey. 

Only solemn silence 
And a wondering smile: 

But your eyes are lifted 
Unto mine the while. 

In their gaze so steady 
I can surely trace 

That a happy spirit 
Lighteth up your face; 

Tender happy spirit, 

Innocent and pure, 

Teaching more than science, 

And than learning more. 

How should I give answer 
To that asking look? 

Darling little Cousin, 

Go back to your book. 


Christina Rossetti 


113 


Read on: if you knew it, 
You have cause to boast: 
You are much the wiser, 
Though I know the most. 


Fly away, fly away over the sea, 

Sun-loving swallow, for summer is done; 
Come again, come again, come back to me, 
Bringing the summer and bringing the sun. 


The lily has a smooth stalk, 
Will never hurt your hand; 
But the rose upon her briar 
Is lady of the land. 


There’s sweetness in an apple tree, 
And profit in the corn; 

But lady of all beauty 
Is a rose upon a thorn. 

When with moss and honey 
She tips her bending briar, 

And half unfolds her glowing heart, 
She sets the world on fire. 


Hurt no living thing: 

Ladybird, nor butterfly, 

Nor moth with dusty wing, 

Nor cricket chirping cheerily, 
Nor grasshopper so light of leap, 
Nor dancing gnat, nor beetle fat, 
Nor harmless worms that creep. 


A pocket handkerchief to hem— 
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear! 
How many stitches it will take 
Before it’s done, I fear. 






114 


The Children's Poets 


Yet set a stitch and then a stitch, 

And stitch and stitch away, 

Till stitch by stitch the hem is done— 
And after work is play! 


A CHRISTMAS CAROL 
For my Godchildren 

The Shepherds had an Angel, 

The Wise Men had a star, 

But what have I, a little child, 

To guide me home from far, 

Where glad stars sing together 
And singing angels are?— 

Lord Jesus is my Guardian, 

So I can nothing lack: 

The lambs lie in His bosom 

Along life’s dangerous track: 

The wilful lambs that go astray 
He bleeding fetches back. 

Lord Jesus is my guiding star, 

My beacon-light in heaven: 

He leads me step by step along 
The path of life uneven: 

He, true light, leads me to that land 
Whose day shall be as seven. 

Those Shepherds through the lonely night 
Sat watching by their sheep, 

Until they saw the heavenly host 
Who neither tire nor sleep, 

All singing “Glory, glory” 

In festival they keep. 

Christ watches me, His little lamb, 

Cares for me day and night, 

That I may be His own in heaven: 

So angels clad in white 


Christina Rossetti 


.115 


Shall sing their “Glory, glory” 

For my sake in the height. 

The Wise Men left their country 
To journey morn by morn, 

With gold and frankincense and myrrh, 
Because the Lord was born: 

God sent a star to guide them 
And sent a dream to warn. 

My life is like their journey, 

Their star is like God’s book; 

I must be like those good Wise Men 
With heavenward heart and look: 

But shall I give no gifts to God?— 
What precious gifts they took! 

Lord, I will give my love to Thee, 

Than gold much costlier, 

Sweeter to Thee than frankincense, 

More prized than choicest myrrh: 

Lord, make me dearer day by day, 

Day by day holier; 

Nearer and dearer day by day: 

Till I my voice unite, 

And sing my “Glory, glory” 

With angels clad in white; 

All “Glory, glory” given to Thee 

Through all the heavenly height. 


In the meadow—what in the meadow? 
Bluebells, buttercups, meadowsweet, 

And fairy rings for the children’s feet 
In the meadow. 

In the garden—what in the garden? 
Jacob’s-ladder and Solomon’s-seal, 

And Love-lies-bleeding beside All-heal 
In the garden. 





116 


The Children's Poets 


Stroke a flint, and there is nothing to admire: 

Strike a flint, and forthwith flash out sparks of fire. 


The horses of the sea 
Rear a foaming crest, 

But the horses of the land 
Serve us the best. 

The horses of the land 
Munch corn and clover, 
While the foaming sea-horses 
Toss and turn over. 


Who has seen the wind? 

Neither I nor you: 

But when the leaves hang trembling 
The wind is passing thro’. 

Who has seen the wind? 

Neither you nor I: 

But when the trees bow down their heads 
The wind is passing by. 


If all were rain and never sun, 
No bow could span the hill; 
If all were sun and never rain, 
There’d be no rainbow still. 


Hope is like a harebell trembling from its birth, 
Love is like a rose the joy of all the earth; 

Faith is like a lily lifted high and white, 

Love is like a lovely rose the world’s delight; 
Harebells and sweet lilies show a thornless growth, 
But the rose with all its thorns excels them both. 






CHAPTER SEVEN 


Walter de la Mare 

Among the younger English writers who have made their 
mark during the past twenty years, Mr. Walter de la Mare is 
the only notable children’s poet. His first published book 
of poems was a series called Songs of Childhood, which ap¬ 
peared in 1901, six years before his Poems . Eleven years 
after Songs of Childhood appeared a tiny volume called A 
Child's Day, which was republished in 1920, and Peacock 
Pie, which has proved to be the most widely known of his 
books for children. In 1922 Down-Adoivn-Derry was pub¬ 
lished, a collection of fairy poems. These four volumes, 
together with a group of nine poems entitled Memories of 
Childhood, in Poems, 1906, make up a body of verse for 
children and about children unsurpassed in amount by any 
lyricist, and unequaied in fineness of texture, in delicacy 
of feeling, in sweetness of tone, and in vigor of imagination 
by any contemporary poet of childhood. 

Mr. de la Mare has been so often likened to other chil¬ 
dren’s poets that we cannot avoid comparisons. “He is the 
modern Blake,” says one enthusiast. He is like Blake at 
times. Blake would have delighted in such a poem as 
Bread and Cherries, for example, or The Horn, or The 
Quartette, or Sooeep, or this exquisite song: 

THE BUCKLE 

I had a silver buckle, 

I sewed it on my shoe, 

And ’neath a sprig of mistletoe 
I danced the evening through. 

117 


118 


The Children's Poets 


I had a bunch of cowslips, 

I hid them in a grot, 

In case the elves should come by night 
And me remember not. 

I had a yellow riband, 

I tied it in my hair, 

That, walking in the garden, 

The birds might see it there. 

I had a secret laughter, 

I laughed it near the wall: 

Only the ivy and the wind 
May tell of it at all. 

This is precisely such a theme as William Blake might 
have chosen; it voices Blake’s sad-sweet music, it has the 
atmosphere which Blake loved and lived in, and at the same 
time has the splendid pictorial quality of Blake. Yes, Mr. 
de la Mare reminds one of Blake. 

Other critics find him reminiscent of Robert Louis Steven¬ 
son. Yes, he is somewhat like Stevenson, Stevenson of the 
Child's Garden. Mr. de la Mare’s “child in the story” re¬ 
sembles the imaginative, solitary little boy in the Garden. 
Like R. L. S’s child, he plays by himself, and his play is of 
the same fanciful, make-believe nature. The following, for 
instance: would it surprise any one to come across it in the 
Child's Garden? In theme, in mood, in form, almost in 
phrasing, this is veritable Robert Louis: 


THE MASSACRE 

The shadow of a poplar tree 
Lay in that lake of sun, 

As I with my little sword went in— 
Against a thousand, one. 


Walter de la Mare 


119 


Haughty and infinitely armed, 

Insolent in their wrath, 

Plumed high with purple plumes they held 
The narrow meadow path. 

The air was sultry; all was still; 

The sun like flashing glass; 

And snip-snap my light-whispering steel 
In arcs of light did pass. 

Lightly and dull fell each proud head, 

Spiked keen without avail, 

Till swam my uncontented blade 
With ichor green and pale. 

And silence fell: the rushing sun 
Stood still in paths of heat, 

Gazing in waves of horror on 
The dead about my feet. 

Never a whir of wing, no bee 
Stirred o’er the shameful slain; 

Nought but a thirsty wasp crept in, 

Stooped, and came out again. 

The very air trembled in fear; 

Eclipsing shadow seemed 
Rising in crimson waves of gloom— 

On one who dreamed. 

Stevenson, to be sure, would not have written those 
splendid lines: 

Haughty and infinitely armed, 

Insolent in their wrath. 

Mr. de la Mare’s child owns an imagination more vigorous, 
stronger for daring and lofty flights than Stevenson’s. 

The two poets are alike in another way: both have ex¬ 
plored thoroughly that enchanted region known to travelers as 


120 


The Children's Poets 


the Land of Counterpane. Not that the child of the later 
poet must lie sick abed, as poor Louis had to do. Like a 
dutiful twentieth century boy he takes his afternoon nap— 
sitting at the window! 


THE WINDOW 

Behind the blinds I sit and watch 
The people passing—passing by; 

And not a single one can see 
My tiny watching eye. 

They cannot see my little room, 

All yellowed with the shaded sun; 

They do not even know I am here; 

Nor guess when I am gone. 

But it is in that witching hour before he has dropped off 
to sleep, when the sounds and sights and odors of night are 
most provocative—it is then that Mr. de la Mare’s little boy 
is most a poet. 


FULL MOON 

One night as Dick lay half asleep, 
Into his drowsy eyes 
A great still light began to creep 
From out the silent skies. 

It was the lovely moon’s, for when 
He raised his dreamy head, 

Her surge of silver filled the pane 
And streamed across his bed. 

So, for awhile, each gazed at each— 
Dick and the solemn moon— 

Till, climbing slowly on her way, 
She vanished, and was gone. 


Walter de la Mare 


121 


Never was child so enamored of the moon, so entangled 
in its beams, and never was poet who sang so delightfully of 
its magic and majesty. 

Yes, Mr. de la Mare is like Stevenson. But Stevenson 
sticks pretty close to earth and the homely things of earth, 
though, needless to say, he elevates and transfigures all he 
touches. There is more of the mysterious, more of the 
supernal and the supernatural, and a wider, wilder sweep of 
the imagination in Mr. de la Mare. Yet who could tell 
which of the two poets wrote this? 


THE HORSEMAN 

I heard a horseman 
Ride over the hill; 

The moon shone clear, 

The night was still; 

His helm was silver, 

And pale was he; 

And the horse he rode 
Was of ivory. 

And at times Mr. de la Mare resembles Christina Ros¬ 
setti—not so much in form or in theme as in a certain mood. 
The soft, subdued, plaintive strain is familiar to both. And 
both have the courage and the understanding to tell children 
now and then of the griefs and tragedies of life. In The 
Pedlar, in The Miller and his Son, in Down-Adown-Derry, 
in Alidvan (our poet has a genius for the creation of names 
of places and persons), Mr. de la Mare has chosen themes 
which would have appealed strongly fo the author of Goblin 
Market and of the tremulous little dirges in Sing-Song. 
Here is one of the best of his poems in this manner. 


122 


The Children's Poets 


THE SILVER PENNY 

“Sailorman, I’ll give to you 
My bright silver penny, 

If out to sea you’ll sail me 
And my dear sister Jenny.” 

“Get in, young sir, I’ll sail ye 
And your dear sister Jenny, 

But pay she shall her golden locks 
Instead of your penny.” 

They sail away, they sail away, • 
0 fierce the winds blew! 

The foam flew in clouds, 

And dark the night grew! 

And all the wild sea-water 
Climbed steep into the boat; 

Back to the shore again 
Sail they will not. 

Drowned is the sailorman, 

Drowned is sweet Jenny, 

And drowned in the deep sea 
A bright silver penny. 


Note the climax in the last stanza, for climax it is from 
the child’s and the artist’s point of view. And note that in 
this poem, as in the other tragic pieces, it is not death in and 
of itself, not the undramatic death of a man or woman which 
is the theme: it is the romantic disappearance of children, a 
poetic taking-off shrouded in mystery and suggestive of 
supernatural agencies. When it is a matter of death in its 
familiar guise, Mr. de la Mare’s little child is not interested. 
Witness the following poem, The Funeral: 


Walter de la Mare 


123 


THE FUNERAL 

They dressed us up in black, 

Susan and Tom and me— 

And, walking through the fields 
All beautiful to see, 

With branches high in the air 
And daisy and buttercup, 

We heard the lark in the clouds— 

In black dressed up. 

They took us to the graves, 

Susan and Tom and me, 

Where the long grasses grow 
And the funeral tree: 

We stood and watched; and the wind 
Came softly out of the sky 
And blew in Susan’s hair, 

As I stood close by. 

Back through the fields we came, 

Susan and Tom and me, 

And we sat in the nursery together, 

And had our tea. 

And, looking out of the window, 

I heard the thrushes sing; 

But Tom fell asleep in his chair, 

He was so tired, poor thing. 

Mr. de la Mare is also like Miss Rossetti in his delight in 
beautiful landscapes and ability to paint them. The 
Rainbow is such a picture; so is Summer Evening; so is this 
dainty thing: 



CHICKEN 

Clapping her platter stood plump Bess, 
And all across the green 
Came scampering in, on wing and claw, 
Chicken fat and lean:— 


124 


The Children's Poets 


Dorking, Spaniard, Cochin China, 

Bantams sleek and small, 

Like feathers blown in a great wind, 

They came at Bessie’s call. 

But whereas Miss Rossetti’s pictures are of nature in her 
cultivated and domesticated aspects, Mr. de la Mare’s are 
oftentimes more descriptive of her wilder, fiercer phases. 

But enough of resemblances! Walter de la Mare does 
resemble Blake and Stevenson and Christina Rossetti; but 
this is tantamount to saying that he has a varied repertoire, 
that he writes on many subjects, in many keys, in many styles. 
He resembles other poets, but most of all he resembles him¬ 
self. His lyric power, his understanding of child life, his 
pictorial pen are his own, by virtue of what he is. Had the 
others never lived, he would have written in virtually the way 
he has written. 

In two other fields, besides those spoken of, has Mr. de la 
Mare gleaned and garnered. One of these is in the field 
of the grotesque and the humoresque. His poems in this vein 
are sometimes based upon the naivete of children: The 
Bandog , for example. 


THE BANDOG 

Has anybody seen my Mopser?— 

A comely dog is he, 

With hair of the color of a Charles the Fifth 
And teeth like ships at sea. 

His tail it curls straight upwards, 

His ears stand two abreast, 

And he answers to the simple name of Mopser, 
When civilly addressed. 

Sometimes it is sheer grotesquerie, as in the following: 


Walter de la Mare 


125 


ALAS, ALACK! 

Ann, Ann! 

Come! quick as you can! 

There’s a fish that talks 
In the frying-pan. 

Out of the fat, 

As clear as glass, 

He put up his mouth 
And moaned “Alas!” 

Oh, most mournful, 

“Alas, alack!” 

Then turned to his sizzling, 

And sank him back. 

Sometimes it is a Lear-like jeu d’esprit ,—for instance, The 
Ship of Rio, of which 

Nine and ninety monkeys 
Were all her jovial crew. 

Sometimes it is a puzzling, haunting, sense-or-nonsense, 
Lewis-Carroll skit like that of the unfortunate Jim Jay, who 

Got stuck fast 
In yesterday; 

or an extravaganza like The Lost Shoe or Off the Ground • 
this last almost worthy to be placed beside that other travel¬ 
ogue, John Gilpin’s Ride.. Mr. de la Mare’s vein of humor 
is genuine and rich; it outcrops occasionally in unexpected 
spots; end, best of all, it is humor of that strong-flavored 
robustness beloved of all children of the children of Adam. 

But it is in the poetry of the supernatural that Mr. de la 
Mare makes his most original end delightful contribution to 
the children’s anthology. Here he is undisputed master. 
His poems in this genre range all the way from those con- 


126 


The Children's Poets 


taining the slightest Hawthornesque touch of the magical and 
mysterious to those dealing frankly and undisguisedly with 
denizens of the under- and upper-world. 

In Sleepyhead the child hears a “faint singing in the 
wood”—the gnomes are calling him; but when he goes to 
seek them out, he can find only a robin. In Bluebells he 
spies fairies in a ring, but, as he approaches, they vanish 
into thin air. As he sits under the mistletoe, all alone, some 
one comes and kisses him. 

No footsteps came, no voice, but only, 

Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely, 

Stooped in the still and shadowy air 
Lips unseen—and kissed me there. 

In Some One , 

Some one came knocking 
At my wee, small door; 

Some one came knocking, 

I’m sure—sure—sure. 

But when the little boy opens the door, he can hear nothing 
but the busy beetle, the screech-owl, and the cricket. In Sam, 
as he leans from his window casement in the moonlight, he 
sees a mermaid and hears her calling him. 

Wonderful lovely there she sat, 

Singing the night away, 

All in the solitudinous sea 
Of that there lonely bay. 

He walks past The Old Stone House on tiptoe, for well he 
knows 

A friendless face is peering, and a clear still eye 
Peeps closely through the casement as my step goes by. 


Walter de la Mare 127 

One‘of the most charming of the poems in this style is 
this: 


THE LITTLE GREEN ORCHARD 

Some one is always sitting there, 

In the little green orchard; 

Even when the sun is high 
In noon’s unclouded sky, 

And faintly droning goes 
The bee from rose to rose, 

Some one in shadow is sitting there, 

In the little green orchard. 

Yes, and when twilight is falling softly 
In the little green orchard; 

When the gray dew distils 
And every flower-cup fills; 

When the last blackbird says, 

“What—what!” and goes her way—s-sh! 

I have heard voices calling softly 

In the little green orchard. 

Not that I am afraid of being there, 

In the little green orchard; 

Why, when the moon’s been bright, 
Shedding her lonesome light, 

And moths like ghosties come, 

And the horned snail leaves home: 

I’ve sat there, whispering and listening there, 
In the little green orchard. 

Only it’s strange to be feeling there, 

In the*little green orchard; 

Whether you paint or draw, 

Dig, hammer,' chop, or saw; 

When you are most alone, 

All but the silence gone. . . 

Some one is watching and waiting there, 

In the little green orchard. 


128 


The Children's Poets 


But not always are the fairy folk so dimly descried. 
Sometimes they are seen quite plainly indeed, as in The 
Fairies Dancing, in Arroar, and The Mocking Fairy. Some 
of the little people have names—melodious, fairy-like names 
they are—and their lives and adventures are told in detail. 
Such are the three dwarfs who lived in the Isle of Lone : 
Alliolyle, Lallerie, and Muziomone; such are Gimmul and 
Mel in The Honey Robbers; such is the dainty, Puck-like 
Melmillo. Sometimes the fairies, conducting themselves in 
strict accordance with the canons and traditions of their tribe, 
give help to mortals, as when, in Berries, the fairy shows 
old Jill where the choicest berries are to be found—Jill 
displaying her gratitude and her grounding in nursery lore 
by making a teeny-tiny pot of jelly for the little helper. 

Our poet’s other-wordly creatures are varied. He intro¬ 
duces his child-readers, in such poems r.s I saw Three Witches 
and The Ride-by-Nights, to some amiable, terrifying witches; 
he makes them acquainted with mischievous changelings, 
lorelies, dwarfs, ogres, pilgrim-besetting fiends, and ghosts— 
many ghosts. There is the ghost of a hound in The Gage. 
There is the ghost of a girl in The Phantom —such a gentle, 
friendly, wistful little wraith, so much more companionable 
than a fairy that Ann lays her fairy book aside to muse upon 
the apparition. And there are a number of ghost-ridden 
houses. Alulvan is one of these, so is the house in Haunted, 
and The Old Stone House and The Ruin. These are not so 
fearful, because one can avoid such spots—perhaps. But 
when in The Ogre a misshapen giant creeps in the dead of 
night up to a cottage where two little children are sleeping and 
stretches out his horrible hairy hands to clutch them—then 
it is high time to scream. He is balked of his prey, however, 
for the mother utters, in the nick of time, the sacred name; 


Walter de la Mare 


129 


And like a ravenous beast which sees 
The hunter’s icy eye, 

So did this wretch in wrath confess 
Sweet Jesu’s mastery. 

Lightly he drew his greedy thumb 
From out that casement pale, 

And strode, enormous, swiftly home, 

Whinnying down the dale. 

Mr. de la Mare takes his wolves and his witches and ghosts 
seriously. Here is no foolery, no drollery, no light-hearted 
trafficking with jovial goblins of the brood of which Eugene 
Field and James Whitcomb Riley tell us. And if, now and 
then, he frightens his child-hearers, as any understanding 
friend of children will do occasionally—what then? For 
a normal child there is nothing so delightful and so desirable 
as an occasional fright-poem or horror-story—of the right 
quality, which means of the artistic quality. 

At any rate, Mr. de la Mare as man and poet is a fre¬ 
quenter of that marchland, that “bateable” country dividing 
the normal and natural from the abnormal and supernatural. 
It is in his blood, blood enriched with a strong Celtic strain. 
And his best poetry, whether for children or for men and 
women, is sad poetry. Keen delight in beauty and deep 
sadness at thought of its impermanence is as characteristic 
of him as of his friend Rupert Brooke or of that fine lyric 
poet, Robert Herrick, with whom Mr. de la Mare has close 
poetic kinship. Leaf through his poems and see how many 
of them are interfused with the poignantly sweet unintelli¬ 
gible and incommunicable mysteriousness of life. It is to be 
found, sharpened to irony, in Motley; it is to be found, ex¬ 
pressed in a dim allegory, in Listeners , this last one of the 


130 


The Children’s Poets 


greatest imaginative poems of our century. When, there¬ 
fore, he writes weird, eerie, fairy-haunted verse for chil¬ 
dren, he is but allowing the current of his emotions to flow 
naturally down the channels of his nature, in obedience to 
the law of spiritual gravity. Here is no writing down to 
little tots, no selecting of themes and moods and diction for 
a special circle, no stultifying of his genius, and no dispar¬ 
agement of the understanding of his readers. 

What special experience or what specific impulse moved 
Mr. de la Mare to write so much verse about and for chil¬ 
dren is unimportant. He has four children of his own; but 
this fact does not necessarily signify anything as to his verse. 
What does signify is his attitude toward children and child¬ 
hood. This may be determined, of course, from his verse 
written for children, much of which has been herein quoted. 
It may be determined more accurately perhaps from a read¬ 
ing of his verse concerning children. One truth is easily 
discernible: he wishes the illusions of childhood, the bright 
web of fancy, to be undisturbed. This is what he means by 
Reverie . 


REVERIE 

Bring not bright candles, for his eyes 
In twilight have sweet company; 

Bring not bright candles, else they fly— 
His phantoms fly— 

Gazing aggrieved on thee! 

* * * * 

Bring not bright candles to those eyes 
That between earth and stars descry, 
Lovelier for the shadows there, 

Children of air, 

Palaces in the sky! 


Walter de la Mare 


131 


The child’s world, according to our poet, is wonderfully 
rich and romantic, and he must be left to explore it unmo¬ 
lested. 

And our poet realizes, as only a poet can, how swiftly 
the shades of the prison house close in upon the child, and 
the realization saddens him, as one more illustration of 
the unabiding quality of beauty. This is the theme of 
Foreboding , of which I quote the first two stanzas. 

Thou canst not see him standing by— 

Time—with a poppied hand 
Stealing thy youth’s simplicity, 

Even as falls unceasingly 
His waning sand. 

He will pluck thy childish roses, as 
Summer from her bush 
Strips all the loveliness that was; 

Even to the silence evening has 
Thy laughter hush. 

This is William Blake again, with his Songs of Innocence 
and Songs of Experience , but Blake with less bitterness, with 
more acquiescence in the natural order* of things. 

Only occasionally does Mr. de la Mare show the paternal 
attitude toward children. He has written only one lullaby 
—a tender, lovely one, however, beginning 

Sleep, sleep, lovely white soul. 

It is the mystic, romantic phase of childhood which appeals 
most to Mr. de la Mare: this is his fundamental point of 
view, this is his coign of vantage from which he sees child 
life. But—let this be made clear—most of his verse is for 
children. He has the rare power of stealing back to child- 


132 


The Children's Poets 


hood, of recalling the universe as it appeared to him as a 
child, an unusually imaginative child, perhaps, but a child, 
with a child’s power to create a world out of its own fancies. 

Innocent children out of nought 

Build up a universe of thought. 

As to our poet’s lyric power, what remains to say or how 
say it? It cannot be defined, it cannot even be described: 
it can only be illustrated. Mr. Conrad Aiken, poet and 
critic, has said: “It is doubtful whether any other living 
American or English poet can weave simple melody as 
deftly as Mr. de la Mare.” It is “simple,” it is “melody,” 
it is very “deftly woven”—and not much remains to be 
said. Mr. de la Mare’s verse has a liquid, lucid, singing 
quality; perhaps it is at times a bit too plaintive, but it is 
always free on the one hand from harshness and on the other 
from the sirupy-sweet lyricism of the sentimentalists. His 
diction is both robust and graceful, he unites words skillfully 
in melodious and original combinations. I am acquainted 
with no modern poets and few earlier ones who have 
his command over the movements of verse, the accelerandos, 
the ritardos, the holds and pauses, all the devices to create 
variety in unity, to wed the sense and the sound happily. 
Perhaps Mr. de la Mare, however far aloof he has held him¬ 
self from the camp of the free-verse poets, has been in¬ 
fluenced, in spite of himself, by their principles, and then 
has proceeded to surpass them in their practices. At any 
rate, he is one of the most charming writers of verse now 
living. 

The greater part of Mr. de la Mare’s poetry for children 
is to be found in his authorized Collected Poems, Holt, 1920. 
Peacock Pie is published separately by Henry Holt and 


Walter de la Mare 


133 


Company in two editions, one with illustrations by Mr. W. 
Heath Robinson, the other with illustrations by Mr. Claud 
Lovat Fraser. The verses in A Child’s Day are not included 
in the Collected Poems, but are published in a separate little 
illustrated volume by Holt. The collection called Down - 
Adown-Derry: Fairy Poems, with illustrations by Miss 
Dorothy Lathrop, also is published by Henry Holt and Com¬ 
pany. 


134 


The Children's Poets 

SELECTIONS FROM WALTER DE LA MARE 


THE HUNTSMEN 

Three jolly gentlemen, 

In coats of red, 

Rode their horses 
Up to bed. 

Three jolly gentlemen 
Snored till morn, 

Their horses champing 
The golden corn. 

Three jolly gentlemen 
At break of day, 

Came clitter-clatter down the stairs 
And galloped away. 


THE QUARTETTE 

Tom sang for joy and Ned sang for joy and old Sam sang for joy; 
All we four boys piped up loud, just like one boy; 

And the ladies that sate with the Squire—their cheeks were all wet, 
For the noise of the voice of us boys, when we sang our Quartette. 

Tom he piped low and Ned he piped low and old Sam he piped low; 
Into a sorrowful fall did our music flow; 

And the ladies that sate with the Squire vowed they’d never forget 
How the eyes of them cried for delight, when we sang our Quartette. 


HIDE AND SEEK 

Hide and seek, says the Wind, 
In the shade of the woods; 
Hide and seek, says the Moon, 
To the hazel buds; 


Waiter de la Marc 


13 


Hide and seek, says the Cloud, 

Star on to star; 

Hide and seek, says the Wave 
At the harbor bar; 

Hide and seek, say I 
To myself, and step 
Out of the dream of Wake 
Into the dream of Sleep. 

SILVER 

Slowly, silently, now the moon 
Walks the night in her silver shoon; 

This way, and that, she peers, and sees 
Silver fruit upon silver trees; 

One by one the casements catch 
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch; 

Couched in his kennel, like a log, 

With paws of silver sleeps the dog; 

From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep 
Of doves in silver-feathered sleep; 

A harvest mouse goes scampering by, 

With silver claws, and silver eye; 

And moveless fish in the water gleam, 

By silver reeds in a silver stream. 

GRIM 

Beside the blaze of forty fires 
Giant Grim doth sit. 

Roasting a thick-wooled mountain sheep 
Upon an iron spit. 

Above him wheels the winter sky, 

Beneath him, fathoms deep, 

Lies hidden in the valley mists 
A village fast asleep— 

Save for one restive hungry dog 
That, snuffing toward the height, 

Smells Grim’s broiled supper-meat, and spies 
His watch-fire twinkling bright. 


136 


The Children's Poets 


THE SUPPER 

A wolf he pricks with eyes of fire 
Across the night’s o’ercrusted snows. 

Seeking his prey, 

He pads his way 
Where Jane benighted goes, 

Where Jane benighted goes. 

He curdles the bleak air with ire, 

Ruffling his hoary raiment through, 

And lo! he sees 
’Neath the trees 

Where Jane’s light footsteps go, 

Where Jane’s light footsteps go. 

No hound peals thus in wicked joy. 

He snaps his muzzle in the snows, 

His five-clawed feet 
Do scamper fleet 

Where Jane’s bright lanthorn shows, 

Where Jane’s bright lanthorn shows. 

Now his greed’s green doth gaze unseen 
On a pure face of wilding rose, 

Her amber eyes 
In fear’s surprise 
Watch largely as she goes, 

Watch largely as she goes. 

Salt wells his hunger in his jaws, 

His lust it revels to and fro, 

Yet small beneath 
A soft voice saith, 

“Jane shall in safety go, 

Jane shall in safety go.” 

He lurched as if a fiery lash 

Had scourged his hide, and through and through 


Walter de la Mare 


13 


His furious eyes 
O’erscanned the skies, 

But nearer dared not go, 

But nearer dared not go. 

He reared like wild Bucephalus, 

His fangs like spears in him uprose, 
Even to the town 
Jane’s flitting gown 
He grins on as he goes, 

He grins on as he goes. 

In fierce lament he howls amain, 

He scampers, marveling in his throes 
What brought him there 
To sup on air. 

While Jane unharmed goes, 

While Jane unharmed goes. 


THE UNIVERSE 

I heard a little child beneath the stars 
Talk as he ran along 

To some sweet riddle in his mind that seemed 
A-tiptoe into song. 

In his dark eyes lay a wild universe,— 

Wild forests, peaks, and crests; 

Angels and fairies, giants, wolves, and he 
Were that world’s only guests. 

Elsewhere was home and mother, his warm bed:— 
Now, only God alone 

Could, armed with all His power and wisdom, make 
Earths richer than his own. 

O Man!—thy dreams, thy passions, hopes, desires!— 
He in his pity keep 

A homely bed where love may lull a child’s 
Fond Universe asleep! 


CHAPTER EIGHT 


Edward Lear 

One morning about half a century ago an observant 
traveler breakfasting at the Certosa di Pesio in the maritime 
Alps might have witnessed a curious scene. Among the 
sprinkling of English-speaking visitors at the long narrow 
tables were a lady accompanied by her two daughters, one 
quite a little girl, and a benevolent old gentleman with a 
long white beard and very bright eyes. Seeing that the 
little girl was having trouble with her knife and fork, the 
old gentleman produced a piece of paper and a pencil 
and drew her a comical picture with a nonsense rhyme 
written below. Immediately he was identified as the de¬ 
lightful Mr. Lear whose first Nonsense Book many children 
already knew by heart. 

The incident given above is narrated in A Diplomatist 9 s 
Wife In Many Lands by Mrs. Hugh Fraser, who was the 
elder of the two girls. In the weeks that followed, the 
friendship that began at the breakfast table grew apace. 
For Daisy, the younger sister, many of the poems in Lear’s 
second Nonsense Book were written. A bump on her head 
inspired him to write The Uncareful Cow. The manifold 
implements of the Italian table d’hote inspired his Many - 
forkia Spoonfolia , and the general gayety gave rise to his 
justly celebrated Recipes for Nonsense Cookery . Every 
morning when Daisy came to breakfast she found on her 
plate a new gift from Mr. Lear, usually a colored sketch 
with an appropriate poem. Small wonder that his young 
friends loved him. 

Lear’s first book of nonsense contained this dedicatory 

138 


Edward Lear 


139 


note: “To the great-grandchildren, grand-nephews and 
grand-nieces of Edward, thirteenth Earl of Derby, this book 
of drawings and verses (the greater part of which were 
originally made and composed for their parents) is dedi¬ 
cated.” For it was while Lear was engaged in drawing the 
birds at the country seat of the Earl of Derby, where, as 
Lear says, “Children and mirth abounded,” that the poet- 
artist was inspired to write his first nonsense verses. The 
second volume, Lear states, was “written at different times 
for different sets of children.” All of his verse, we may be 
sure, was written for the direct and immediate amusement 
of specific children of the author’s acquaintance. Presum¬ 
ably, only those poems which were successful in their pur¬ 
pose were preserved and printed. Does this fact not 
explain in part the appeal which the verses make to all 
children of all times and climes? 

We are warned not to look for morals and “messages.” 
“Nonsense, pure and absolute, has been my aim through¬ 
out”; so says the author—who really ought to know most 
about the matter. And it is as nonsense that the Nonsense 
Books have lived for three quarters of a century and will 
continue to live so long as the Muse of Amusement has 
power to waken the risibilities. 

Edward Lear was born in 1812 and died in 1888. Two 
generations ago he was known to the world as a painter 
and a writer of travels, or, more precisely, as one who wrote 
books on travel and illustrated them with drawings of his 
own. (Read Tennyson’s poem, To E. L. on His Travels 
in Greece , for a beautiful appreciation of Lear’s work in 
this vein.) To this present generation Edward Lear is known 
only by his Nonsense Books. He published four volumes: 
A Book of Nonsense , 1846, containing only limericks; 


140 


The Children's Poets 


Nonsense Songs , 1871, containing some of his choicest 
“songs,” all of his prose nonsense, part of his Nonsense 
Botany, and part of his Nonsense Alphabets; More Nonsense , 
1872, consisting of limericks, more Nonsense Botany, and 
Nonsense pictures with Nonsense descriptions; and Laughable 
Lyrics , 1877, consisting of Nonsense songs, some more Non¬ 
sense Botany, more Nonsense Alphabets, and, most nonsen¬ 
sical of all, some Nonsense music. These four volumes 
were illustrated by the author with drawings as grotesque 
as any Thackeray ever dared to produce; in fact, the pic¬ 
tures are quite as important as the verses, so that the two 
should never be separated. All four volumes have been 
published in one by Little, Brown and Company, with all 
the original drawings, and with an appropriate introduction 
from the London Spectator; it is a book that should be in 
every juvenile library. 

The most to some faint meaning make pretense, 

But Shadwell never deviates into sense, 

wrote Dryden of Thomas Shadwell. “Never deviates into 
sense”—neither does Lear. He writes non-sense; unadul-' 
terated, simon-pure nonsense; amazing, extravagant, hila¬ 
rious nonsense; topsy-turvy, upside-down, wrong-side-out 
nonsense; delightful nonsense; children’s nonsense. Though 
he traveled to the ends of the earth, he never left the limits 
of the happy land of Blunder-Wonder-Wander. Therefore 
I shall not attempt to analyze and dissect: I shall quote. 
First, from the limericks. 

There was an Old Man in a tree, 

Who was horribly bored by a bee; 

When they said, “Does it buzz?” 


Edward Lear 


141 


He replied, “Yes, it does! 
It’s a regular brute of a bee.” 


There was a Young Lady whose chin 
Resembled the point of a pin; 

So she had it made sharp, 

And purchased a harp, 

And played several tunes with her chin. 


There was an Old Person whose habits 
Induced him to feed upon rabbits; 

When he’d eaten eighteen, 

He turned perfectly green, 

Upon which he relinquished those habits. 


There was an Old Man of the Nile, 
Who sharpened his nails with a file, 
Till he cut off his thumbs, 

And said calmly, “This comes 
Of sharpening one’s nails with a file.” 


There was an Old Man who said, “How 
Shall I flee from this horrible cow? 

I will sit on this stile, 

And continue to smile, 

Which may soften the heart of that cow.” 


There was an Old Man with a beard, 
Who said, “It is just as I feared!— 
Two Owls and a Hen, 

Four Larks and a Wren 
Have all built their nests in my beard.” 


There was an Old Person of Dean 
Who dined on one pea, and one bean; 
For he said, “More than that 
Would make me too fat,” 

That cautious old person of Dean. 








142 


The Children's Poets 


There was an Old Man of Thames-Ditton, 

Who called out for something to sit on; 

But they brought him a hat, 

And said, “Sit on that, 

You abruptious old man of Thames-Ditton.” 

Lear is not the creator of the limerick, as has been 
claimed, but it was Lear that made it popular. The form 
suited to a “t” his’ quaint, nonsensical conceptions. And 
there is surely something in the limerick which makes it 
the ideal form for nonsense, particularly for children’s non¬ 
sense. The unspeakable exaggeration in Lear’s limericks, 
the sheer absurdity, the utter and unutterable nonsense, 
when accompanied by the crackle of the movement, are be¬ 
yond praise. And when to all this is added the grotesque¬ 
ness of the illustrations, it is irresistible. 

The final line of the last limerick quoted above shows 
Lear’s fondness for words coined in the mint of his own 
drollery. And Lear has as great a fondness for the high- 
sounding proper names as Milton—which illustrates the 
fact that it is only a step from the sublime to the ridic¬ 
ulous. But Lear has the advantage of Milton; whenever he 
fails to find in his atlas a suitable name, he invents one— 
in fact, he prefers that method. Here are some of them: 
Jelly Bo Lee, the Gromboolian Plain (those are in Chinan), 
the Chankly Bore, the Isles of Boshen, the Land of Gramble- 
Blamble, Lake Pipple-Popple. Our fun-maker is quite as 
skillful in inventing names for his plants and animals; 
in these days of nature study Lear could be used as a text 
in Unnatural Natural History, as Pliny and John Lyly were 
in the heyday of their popularity. But to quote again: here 
is one of his best “songs.” 


Edward Lear 


143 


THE OWL AND THE PUSSY-CAT 

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea 
In a beautiful pea-green boat; 

They took some honey, and plenty of money 
Wrapped up in a five-pound note. 

The Owl looked up to the stars above, 

And sang to a small guitar, 

“0 lovely Pussy, 0 Pussy, my love, 

What a beautiful Pussy you are, 

You are! 

You are! 

What a beautiful Pussy you are!” 

Pussy said to the Owl, “You elegant fowl, 

How charmingly sweet you sing! 

Oh! Let us be married; too long we have tarried: 

But what shall we do for a ring?” 

They sailed away, for a year and a day, 

To the land where the bong-tree grows; 

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood, 

With a ring at the end of his nose, 

His nose, 

His nose, 

With a ring at the end of his nose. 

“Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for a shilling 
Your ring?” Said the Piggy, “I will.” 

So they took it away, and were married next day 
By the Turkey who lives on the hill. 

They dined on mince and slices of quince, 

Which they ate with a runcible spoon; 

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand, 

They danced in the light of the moon, 

The moon, 

The moon, 

They danced in the light of the moon. 

“Surely,” said John Ruskin, “the most beneficent and 


U4 


The Children s Poets 


\ 


innocent of all books yet produced is the Book of Nonsense 
with its carollary carols, inimitable and refreshing, and per¬ 
fect in rhythm. I really don’t know any author to whom I 
am half so grateful for my idle self as Edward Lear.” “The 
devotion to nonsense, and enthusiasm about trifles,” says 
William Hazlitt, “is one of the striking weaknesses and 
greatest happinesses of our nature.” And if we cannot 
extract any enjoyment from the Nonsense Books, let us pass 
them over to the children; we can at least derive a vicarious 
pleasure in watching the children’s fun-maker rouse the 
risibles of the little folks he loved. Certainly we can agree 
heartily with his own words—“How pleasant to know Mr. 
Lear!” 


How pleasant to know Mr. Lear, 

Who has written such volumes of stuff! 

Some think him ill-tempered and queer, 
But a few think him pleasant enough. 

His mind is concrete and fastidious, 

His nose is remarkably big; 

His visage is more or less hideous, 

His beard it resembles a wig. 

He reads but he cannot speak Spanish, 
He cannot abide ginger beer. 

Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish, 
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! 


Edward Lear 

SELECTIONS FROM EDWARD LEAR 


145 


THE TABLE AND THE CHAIR 

Said the Table to the Chair, 

“You can hardly be aware 
How I suffer from the heat 
And from chilblains on my feet. 

If we took a little walk, 

We might have a little talk; 

Pray let us take the air,” 

Said the Table to the Chair. 

Said the Chair to the Table, 

“Now, you know we are not able: 
How foolishly you talk, 

When you know we cannot walk!” 
Said the Table with a sigh, 

“It can do no harm to try. 

I’ve as many legs as you: 

Why can’t we walk on two?” 

So they both went slowly down, 
And walked about the town 
With a cheerful bumpy sound 
As they toddled round and round; 
And everybody cried, 

As they hastened to their side, 

“See! the Table and the Chair 
Have come out to take the air!” 

But in going down an alley, 

To a castle in a valley, 

They completely lost their way, 
And wandered all the day; 

Till, to see them safely back, 

They paid a Ducky-quack, 

And a Beetle, and a Mouse, 

Who took them to their house. 


146 


The Children's Poets 


Then they whispered to each other, 
“0 delightful little brother, 

What a lovely walk we’ve taken! 
Let us dine on beans and bacon.” 
So the Ducky and the leetle 
Browny-Mousy and the Beetle 
Dined, and danced upon their heads 
Till they toddled to their beds. 


THE QUANGLE WANGLE’S HAT 

On the top of the Crumpetty Tree 
The Quangle Wangle sat, 

But his face you could not see, 

On account of his Beaver Hat. 

For his hat was a hundred and two feet wide, 
With ribbons and bibbons on every side, 

And bells, and buttons, and loops, and lace, 

So that nobody ever could see the face 
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

The Quangle Wangle said 

To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, 

“Jam, and jelly, and bread 
Are the best of food for me! 

For the longer I live on this Crumpetty Tree 
The plainer than ever it seems to me 

That very few people come this way 

And that life on the whole is far from gay!” 
Said the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

But there came to the Crumpetty Tree 
Mr. and Mrs. Canary; 

And they said, “Did you ever see 
Any spot so charmingly airy? 

May we build a nest on your lovely Hat? 

Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! 

0 please let us come and build a nest 
Of whatever material suits you best, 

Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee.” 


Edward Lear 


147 


And besides, to the Crumpetty Tree 
Came the Stork, the Duck, and the Owl; 

The Snail and the Bumble-Bee, 

The Frog and the Fimble Fowl 
(The Fimble Fowl, with a corkscrew leg) ; 

And all of them said, “We humbly beg 
We may build our homes on your lovely Hat,— 
Mr. Quangle Wangle, grant us that! 

Mr. Quangle Wangle Quee.” 

And the Golden Grouse came there, 

And the Pobble who has no toes, 

And the small Olympian bear, 

And the Dong with a luminous nose. 

And the Blue Baboon who played the Flute, 

And the Orient Calf from the Land of Tute, 

And the Attery Squash, and the Bosky Bat,— 

All came and built on the lovely Hat 
Of the Quangle Wangle Quee. 

And the Quangle Wangle said 

To himself on the Crumpetty Tree, 

“When all these creatures move 

What a wonderful noise there’ll be!” 

And at night by the light of the Mulberry Moon 
They danced to the Flute of the Blue Baboon, 

On the broad green leaves of the Crumpetty Tree, 
And all were as happy as happy could be, 

With the Quangle Wangle Quee. 


THE JUMBLIES 


They went to sea in a sieve, they did; 

In a sieve they went to sea: 

In spite of all their friends could say, 

On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day, 

In a sieve they went to sea. 

And when the sieve turned round and round, 
And every one cried, “You’ll all be drowned! 
They called aloud, “Our sieve ain’t big; 


148 


The Children's Poets 


But we don’t care a button, we don’t care a fig: 

In a sieve we’ll go to sea!” 

Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 
Their heads are green and their hands are blue; 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

They sailed away in a sieve, they did, 

In a sieve they sailed so fast, 

With only a beautiful pea-green veil 
Tied with a ribbon by way of a sail, 

To a small tobacco-pipe mast. 

And every one said who saw them go, 

“Oh! won’t they soon be upset, you know? 

For the sky is dark and the voyage is long, 

And happen what may, it’s extremely wrong 
In a sieve to sail so fast.” 

Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live;- 
Their heads are green and their hands are blue; 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

The water it soon came in, it did: 

The water it soon came in: 

So, to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet 
In a pinky paper all folded neat; 

And they fastened it down with a pin. 

And they passed the night in a crockery-jar: 

And each of them said, “How wise we are! 

Though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, 

Yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, 
While round in our sieve we spin.” 

Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 
Their heads are green and their hands are blue; 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

And all night long they sailed away; 

And when the sun went down, 

They whistled and warbled a moony song 


Edward Lear 


149 


To the echoing sound of a coppery gong, 

In the shade of the mountains brown. 

“0 Timballoo! How happy we are 
When we live in a sieve and a crockery-jar! 

And all night long, in the moonlight pale, 

We sail away with a pea-green sail 
In the shade of the mountains brown.” 

Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 

Their heads are green and their hands are blue; 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,— 

To a land all covered with trees: 

And they bought an owl and a useful curt, 

And a pound of rice, and a cranberry-tart, 

And a hive of silvery bees; 

And they bought a pig, and some green jackdaws, 

And a lovely monkey with lollipop paws, 

And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, 

And no end of Stilton cheese. 

Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 

Their heads are green and their hands are blue; 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 

And in twenty years they all came back,— 

In twenty years or more; 

And every one said, “How tall they’ve grown! 

For they’ve been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone, 
And the hills of the Chankly Bore.” 

And they drank their health, and gave them a feast 
Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; 

And every one said, “If we only live, 

We, too, will go to sea in a sieve, 

To the hills of the Chankly Bore.” 

Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue; 
And they went to sea in a sieve. 


150 


The Children's Poets 


THE DONG WITH A LUMINOUS NOSE 

When awful darkness and silence reign 
Over the great Gromboolian plain, 

Through the long, long wintry nights; 

When the angry breakers roar 
As they beat on the rocky shore; 

When storm-clouds brood on the towering heights 
Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore,— 


Then, through the vast and gloomy dark 
There moves what seems a fiery spark,— 
A lonely spark with silvery rays 
Piercing the coal-black night,— 

A Meteor strange and bright: 

Hither and thither the vision strays, 

A single lurid light. 


[ r\ 


n 1 


Slowly it wanders, pauses, creeps,— 

Anon it sparkles, flashes, and leaps; 

And ever as onward it gleaming goes 
A light on the Bong-tree stem it throws. 

And those who watch at that midnight hour 
From Hall or Terrace or lofty Tower 
Cry, as the wild light passes along,— 

“The Dong! The Dong! 

The wandering Dong through the forest goes! 

The Dong! The Dong! 

The Dong with a luminous Nose!” 

Long years ago 
The Dong was happy and gay, 

Till he fell in love with a Jumbly Girl 
Who came to those shores one day. 

For the Jumblies came in a sieve, they did,— 

Landing at eve near the Zemmery Fidd 
Where the Oblong Oysters grow, 

And the rocks are smooth and gray, 

And all the woods and valleys rang 

With the chorus they daily and nightly sang,— 

■ V v V 




Edward Lear 


151 


“Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue. 
And they went to sea in a sieve.” 


Happily, happily passed those days! 

While the cheerful Jumblies staid; 

They danced in circlets all night long, 

To the plaintive pipe of the lively Dong, 

In moonlight, shine, or shade. 

For day and night he was always there 
By the side of the Jumbly Girl so fair, 

With her sky-blue hands and her sea-green hair; 

Till the morning came of that hateful day 
When the Jumblies sailed in their sieve away, 

And the Dong was left on the cruel shore 
Gazing, gazing for evermore,— 

Ever keeping his weary eyes on 

That pea-green sail on the far horizon,— 

Singing the Jumbly Chorus still 
As he sat all day on the grassy hill,— 

“Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jumblies live; 

Their heads are green, and their hands are blue, 
And they went to sea in a sieve.” 

But when the sun was low in the West, 

The Dong arose and said,— 

“What little sense I once possessed 
Has quite gone out of my head!” 

And since that day he wanders still 
By lake and forest, marsh and hill, 

Singing, “0 somewhere, in valley or plain, 

Might I find my Jumbly Girl again! 

For ever I’ll seek by lake and shore 
Till I find my Jumbly Girl once more!” 

Playing a pipe with silvery squeaks, 

Since then his Jumbly Girl he seeks; 

And because by night he could not see, 

He gathered the bark of the Twangum Tree 


152 


The Children s Poets 


On the flowery plain that grows. 

And he wove him a wondrous Nose,— 

A Nose as strange as a Nose could be! 

Of vast proportions and painted red, 

And tied with cords to the back of his head. 

In a hollow rounded space it ended 
With a luminous lamp within suspended, 

All fenced about 
With a bandage stout 

To prevent the wind from blowing it out 
And with holes all round to send the light 
In gleaming rays on a dismal night. 

• 

And now each night, and all night long, 

Over those plains still roams the Dong; 

And above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe 
You may hear the squeak of his plaintive pipe, 
While ever he seeks, but seeks in vain, 

To meet with his Jumbly Girl again; 

Lonely and wild, all night he goes,— 

The Dong with a luminous Nose! 

And all who watch at the midnight hour, 

From Hall or Terrace or lofty Tower, 

Cry, as they trace the meteor bright, 

Moving along through the dreary night,— 
“This is the hour when forth he goes, 

The Dong with a luminous Nose! 

Yonder over the plain he goes,— 

He goes! 

He goes,— 

The Dong with a luminous Nose!” 


THE DUCK AND THE KANGAROO 

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo, 

“Good gracious! how you hop 
Over the fields, and the water too, 

As if you never would stop! 

My life is a bore in this nasty pond; 


Edward Lear 


153 


And I long to go out in the world beyond: 

I wish I could hop like you,” 

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo. 

“Please give me a ride on your back,” 

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo: 

“I would sit quite still, and say nothing but ‘Quack’ 
The whole of the long day through: 

And we’d go to the Dee, and the Jelly Bo Lee, 

Over the land, and over the sea: 

Please take me a ride! oh, do!” 

Said the Duck to the Kangaroo. 

Said the Kangaroo to the Duck, 

“This requires some little reflection. 

Perhaps, on the whole, it might bring me luck: 

And there seems but one objection; 

Which is, if you’ll let me speak so bold, 

Your feet are unpleasantly wet and cold, 

And would probably give me the roo- 
Matiz,” said the Kangaroo. 

Said the Duck, “As I sat on the rocks, 

I have thought over that completely; 

And I bought four pairs of worsted socks, 

Which fit my web-feet neatly; 

And, to keep out the cold, I’ve bought a cloak, 

And every day a cigar I’ll smoke; 

All to follow my own dear true 
Love of a Kangaroo.” 

Said the Kangaroo, “I’m ready, 

All in the moonlight pale; 

But to balance me well, dear Duck, sit steady, 

And quite at the end of my tail.” 

So away they went with a hop and a bound; 

And they hopped the whole world three times round. 
And who so happy, oh! who, 

As the Duck and the Kangaroo! 


154 


The Children's Poets 


the pobble who has no toes 

The Pobble who has no toes 
Had once as many as we; 

When they said, “Some day you may lose them all,” 
He replied, “Fish fiddle de-dee!” 

And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink 
Lavender water tinged with pink; 

For she said, “The World in general knows 
There’s nothing so good for a Pobble’s toes!” 

The Pobble who has no toes 

Swam across the Bristol Channel; 

But before he set out he wrapped his nose 
In a piece of scarlet flannel. 

For his Aunt Jobiska said, “No harm 
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm; 

And it’s perfectly known that a Pobble’s toes 
Are safe—provided he minds his nose.” 

The Pobble swam fast and well, 

And when boats or ships came near him, 

He tinkledy-binkledy-winkled a bell 
So that all the world could hear him. 

And all the Sailors and Admirals cried, 

When they saw him nearing the farther side, 

“He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska’s 
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!” 

But before he touched the shore— 

The shore of the Bristol Channel, 

A sea-green Porpoise carried away 
His wrapper of scarlet flannel. 

And when he came to observe his feet, 

Formerly garnished with toes so neat, 

His face at once became forlorn 
On perceiving that all his toes were gone! 

And nobody ever knew, 

From that dark day to the present, 


Edward Lear 


155 


Whoso had taken the Pobble’s toes, 

In a manner so far from pleasant. 

Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray, 

Or crafty mermaids stole them away, 

Nobody knew; and nobody knows 

How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes! 

The Pobble who has no toes 
Was placed in a friendly Bark, 

And they rowed him back and carried him up 
To his Aunt Jobiska’s Park. 

And she made him a feast at his earnest wish, 

Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish; 

And she said, “It’s a fact the whole world knows, 

That Pobbles are happier without their toes.” 





CHAPTER NINE 


Lewis Carroll 

Lewis Carroll was not his name, to begin with. His 
name was Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. Did you ever notice, 
by the way, how many humorists adopt a pen-name? Swift 
is Bickerstaff, Carlyle is Diogenes Teufelsdroeckh, Irving 
is Diedrich Knickerbocker, Clemens is Mark Twain. The 
reason is not that the writer wishes to conceal his identity, 
but that as the humorist has a double personality, so he must 
have two names: the baptismal name, to represent his sober, 
serious self; and an “adopted name of privilege,” to rep¬ 
resent his second self. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was a 
graduate of Oxford, and he made his living by lecturing 
and writing on mathematics. Lewis Carroll was a graduate 
of Mother Goose, playmate of children, particularly of little 
girls, and he had his fun by writing nonsense books and 
inventing puzzles. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson wrote a 
Syllabus of Plane Algebraical Geometry; Lewis Carroll 
wrote the two most delicious prose nonsense tales in the 
world: Alice in Wonderland , and Through the Looking 
Glass. It is said that Queen Victoria, who, in spite of her 
many lapses as a literary arbiter, did sometimes praise a 
good book, liked Alice in Wonderland so well that she asked 
the author to send her a copy of his next book. He did: a 
volpme on trigonometry. 

Charles Lutwidge Dodgson was born in 1832, one of a 
family of eleven children. His father and his immediate 
ancestors had been clergymen. Charles was educated for 
the Church, but because of a defect in speech, he proceeded 


156 


Lewis Carroll 


157 


no further than deacon’s orders. His mathematical bent re¬ 
vealed itself early in life, and at Rugby and at Christ 
Church. Oxford, he carried off high honors in mathematics. 
In 1885 he was made “Master of the House,” and from that 
time until the end of his life, Mr. Dodgson was seldom ab¬ 
sent from his quarters in the famous and beautiful old col¬ 
lege. He grew to be an integral part of the institution, one 
of the most picturesque and lovable of the dons of Oxford. 
Had he never written the children’s books which made him 
famous, Christ Church would still hold precious the memory 
of the mathematical scholar. 

Mr. Dodgson began to write early, editing magazines and 
making parodies during his school vacations. Critics tell 
us that the parody is a low form of literature. That de¬ 
pends. It is not dignified, of course; and it requires no 
creative power, since its humor depends upon a more or 
less contemptuous imitation of an original. But if it is 
cleverly done, if it utilizes all its possibilities for con¬ 
trast and incongruity, it is often delightfully funny. 
This is especially true if the original be heavy or tragic 
or affected, or if in any respect it crosses the border 
line between pathos and bathos, between sentiment and sen¬ 
timentality, between eloquence and grandiloquence; then 
it is a fair ^nark for the arrow of the parodist. The 
humorist is an avowed enemy of affectation, and the parody 
is a favorite weapon. The more familiar one is with the 
original the. more irresistible is the appeal of the parody, 
since the humor of the good parody depends upon how 
clearly it presents a contrast between the original, on a high 
plane, and the imitation, on a lower plane. And when the 
parody is an imitation of a species rather than of a speci- 


158 


The Children's Poets 


men, it is often humorous in the truest sense, as witness 
Chaucer’s Sir Thopas , Pope’s The Rape of the Lock , and 
Thackeray’s The Rose and the Ring. 

A few of Carroll’s cleverest parodies are: Echoes , a queer 
medley of Tennyson, Wordsworth, and others; Turtle Soup , 
a take-off on Beautiful Night; To the Looking-Glass World , 
an imitation of Scott’s Bonny Dundee; You are old , Father 
William , based on a popular moralizing poem by Southey, 
now happily forgotten, beginning with these same words; and 
Hiawatha s Photographing , in the easy, running meter of the 
Song of Hiawatha. Let me quote a little of this,—the pas¬ 
sage describing how the father has his picture taken. No¬ 
tice how accurately Carroll has mimicked the familiar char¬ 
acteristics of the original. 


First the Governor, the Father, 

He suggested velvet curtains 
Looped about a massy pillar; 

And the corner of a table, 

Of a rosewood dining-table. 

He would hold a scroll of something, 
Hold it firmly in his left hand; 

He would keep his right hand buried 
(Like Napoleon) in his waistcoat; 

He would contemplate the distance 
With a look of pensive meaning, • 
As of ducks that die in tempests. 
Grand, heroic was the notion, 

Yet the picture failed entirely, 

Failed, because he moved a little, 
Moved, because he couldn’t help it. 


Here is a short parody from Alice in Wonderland. Alice 
is trying to repeat How doth the little busy bee 9 but the 
nearest she can come to it is this: 


Lewis Carroll 


159 


How doth the little crocodile 
Improve his shining tail, 

And pour the waters of the Nile 
On every golden scale! 

How cheerfully he seems to grin, 

How neatly spreads his claws, 

And welcomes little fishes in 
With gently smiling jaws! 

But it is in the nonsense poetry proper that Carroll excels. 
And it is in this that the poet’s mathematical training is of 
value. As Mr. G. K. Chesterton says, “He gave mathematics 
a holiday: he carried logic into the wild lands of illogicality.” 
For to be consistently illogical one must know what logic is; 
to deviate forever from the straight line, one must know where 
the straight line runs. To stand on one’s head requires 
more muscular strength and agility than to stand on one’s 
feet. And that is what the nonsense writer does—he stands 
on his head and sees the whole universe from a new angle. 

The true nonsense-maker must perform a more compli¬ 
cated mental operation than the “sense-maker.” He must or¬ 
ganize and then disorganze so that his ideas are in a disor¬ 
derly order. “It is easy to write like a madman,” some one 
remarked to the dramatist, Nathaniel Lee. “No,” he re¬ 
plied; “it is hard to write like a madman, but easy to write 
like a fool.” What the thinker does is to make a normal, 
conventional mirror; the nonsense writer has the more diffi¬ 
cult task of constructing the distorting mirrors that one finds 
in a Laughing Gallery, a task that certainly requires a pro¬ 
founder knowledge of the laws of reflection of light. And 
Lewis Carroll’s Laughing Gallery, though perhaps it does not 
contain so many mirrors as Lear’s, is unequaled in the num¬ 
ber of laughs a minute. 


160 


The Childrens Poets 


Here is the very finest example of “portmanteau” n 
sense poetry ever written, Jabberwocky , which appears 
Through the Looking Glass: 

JABBERWOCKY 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 

And the mome raths outgrabe. 

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son! 

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! 

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun 
The frumious Bandersnatch!” 

He took his vorpal sword in hand: 

Long time the manxome foe he sought— 

So rested he by the Tumtum tree, 

And stood awhile in thought. 

And as in uffish thought he stood, 

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, 

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, 

And burbled as it came! 

One, two! One, two! And through and through 
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! 

He left it dead, and with its head 
He went galumphing back. 

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 

Come to my arms, my beamish boy! 

0 frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” 

He chortled in his joy. 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; 

All mimsy were the borogoves, 

And the mome raths outgrabe. 


Lewis Carroll 


161 


“It seems very pretty,” Alice said, when she had finished 
it; but it s rather hard to understand. Somehow it seems 
to fill my head with ideas—only I don’t exactly know what 
they are! However, somebody killed something: that’s 
clear.” Yes, Alice that’s clear; and it really does fill your 
head with ideas. 

I have always doubted the adequacy of Humpty-Dumpty’s 
explanation of the portmanteau word. The true genesis of 
the portmanteau word is found in Booth Tarkington’s The 
Turmoil. The amusing negro in that novel is heard repeat¬ 
ing the word “lamidal.” When asked where he heard the 
word, he replies: “I never did hear it: I uz dess sittin’ 
thinkum to myse’f, and she pop in my head. An’ she soun’ 
so good, seem like she gotta mean somepin.” “Brillig” 
and “whiffling” and “beamish”—“they soun’ so good, they 
gotta mean somepin.” 

One of the best examples of Carroll’s straightforwardly 
crooked, illogically logical bits of unreasonable reasoning 
is The White Rabbit’s Verses. These verses were produced 
as incriminating evidence against the Knave of Hearts, what 
time he was arraigned before the King for stealing the 
Queen’s tarts. Alice, who is a staunch believer in the in¬ 
nocence of the Knave, will not admit the validity or pertinence 
of the evidence. “If any one can explain it,” she cries, “I’ll 
give him a sixpence. I don’t believe there’s an atom of mean¬ 
ing in it.” But Alice is wrong: the king is right. “I don’t 
know,” said he, spreading out the verses on his knee and look¬ 
ing at them with one eye; “I seem to see some meaning in 
them after all.” Of course, there is some meaning in them: 
Alice was asleep, that’s evident. 

They told me you had been to her, 

And mentioned me to him; 


162 


The Children’s Poets 


She gave me a good character, 

But said I could not swim. 

He sent them word I had not gone 
(We know it to be true) : 

If she should push the matter on, 

What would become of you? 

I gave her one, they gave him two, 

You gave us three or more; 

They all returned from him to you, 

Though they were mine before. 

If I or she should chance to be 
Involved in this affair, 

He trusts to you to set them free, 

Exactly as we were. 

My notion was that you had been 
(Before she had this fit) 

An obstacle that came between 
Him, and ourselves, and it. 

Don’t let him know she liked them best, 

For this must ever be 

A secret, kept from all the rest, 

Between yourself and me. 

Such evidence would convict any one, especially one who 
is already known as a Knave! 

The best edition of the author’s poems is The Hunting of the 
Snark and Other Poems , published by Harper and Brothers. 
Except for the doubtful wisdom of separating the poems 
belonging to the Alice books and to Sylvie and Bruno 
from their context, the book is admirable. The title piece 
is “an agony in eight fits,” and since the author himself said, 
“As to the meaning of the Snark, I’m very much afraid I 
didn’t mean anything but Nonsense!” we need not concern 


Lewis Carroll 


163 


ourselves with the idea that it may be an allegory in disguise. 
Although The Snark is particularly suitable for older 
children, almost any child will appreciate its rich nonsense, 
its incongruities, mock seriousness, and grotesque mingling 
of grave and gay. 

Well-meaning teachers and parents often make the mis¬ 
take of trying to find in children’s literature meanings which 
the author never intended. They cannot take up a fairy 
story without seeking to teach lessons of kindness, industry, 
piety. A ghost story becomes in their didactic hands an al¬ 
legory of life, a Mother Goose jingle turns into a pretty ser- 
monette. When shall we learn to expect a specimen to give 
us only what the author put into it? And when shall we 
learn that pleasure is, in and of itself, profit, that a nonsense 
poem was written solely for nonsense, must be presented 
just as nonsense, must produce the natural result of nonsense 
—laughter? 

Lewis Carroll’s great success as a writer for children did 
not interrupt the even tenor of C. L. Dodgson’s life at Christ 
Church. He continued his mathematical work, entertained 
his friends, and found his chief pleasure in making children 
happy. He devoted the greater part of his income from the 
sale of his children’s books to good works among his little 
friends. One of his most charming customs consisted in dis¬ 
patching fresh copies of his books to children confined in 
hospitals. After his death, “Alice” cots in memory of him 
were established in London hospitals, by popular subscrip¬ 
tion. 

His life came to an end at Guildford on January 14, 
1898, and the cross which marks his last resting place is ap¬ 
propriately inscribed not only with his name, Revd. Charles 
Lutwidge Dodgson, but also with the name by which he en- 


The Children's Poets 


H) 4 

cleared himself to little folks—Lewis Carroll. In the fol¬ 
lowing stanza, his friend, Miss M. E. Manners, herself a 
writer for children, expressed the tribute we should all like 
to offer him. 

Carroll! accept the heartfelt thanks 
Of children of all ages, 

Of those who long have left their ranks, 

Yet still must love the pages 
Written by him whose magic wand 
Called up the scenes of Wonderland. 


Lewis Carroll 


165 


SELECTIONS FROM LEWIS CARROLL 

THE DEDICATION 

(Through the Looking-Glass and what Alice found there) 

Child of the pure unclouded brow 
And dreaming eyes of wonder! 

Though time be fleet, and I and thou 
Are half a life asunder, 

Thy loving smile will surely hail 
The love-gift of a fairy-tale. 

I have not seen thy sunny face, , 

Nor heard thy silver laughter: 

No thought of me shall find a place 
In thy young life’s hereafter— 

Enough that now thou wilt not fail 
To listen to my fairy-tale. 

A tale begun in other days, 

When summer suns were glowing— 

A simple chime, that served to time 
The rhythm of our rowing— 

Whose echoes live in memory yet, 

Though envious years would say ‘forget.’ 

Come, hearken then, ere voice of dread, 

With bitter tidings laden, 

Shall summon to unwelcome bed 
A melancholy maiden! 

We are but older children, dear, 

Who fret to find our bedtime near. 

Without, the frost, the blinding snow, 

The storm-wind’s moody madness— 

Within, the firelight’s ruddy glow, 

And childhood’s nest of gladness. 

The magic words shall hold thee fast: 

Thou shalt not heed the raving blast. 


166 


The Children's Poets 


And, though the shadow of a sigh 
May tremble through the story, 

For ‘happy summer days’ gone by, 

And vanish’d summer glory— 

It shall not touch, with breath of bale, 
The presence of our fairy-tale. 

Alice’s adventures in wonderland 

(The Prefatory poem) 

All in the golden afternoon 
Full leisurely we glide; 

For both our oars, with little skill, 

By little arms are plied, 

While little hands make vain pretence 
Our wanderings to guide. 

Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour. 
Beneath such dreamy weather, 

To beg a tale of breath too weak 
To stir the tiniest feather! 

Yet what can one poor voice avail 
Against three tongues together? 

Imperious Prima flashes forth 
Her edict “to begin it”— 

In gentler tones Secunda hopes 
“There will be nonsense in it!” 

While Tertia interrupts the tale 
Not more than once a minute. 

Anon, to sudden silence won, 

In fancy they pursue 
The dream-child moving through a land 
Of wonders wild and new, 

In friendly chat with bird or beast— 

And half believe it true. 

And ever, as the story drained 
The wells of fancy dry, 


Lewis Carroll 


167 


And faintly strove that weary one 
To put the subject by, 

“The rest next time”—“It is next time!” 
The happy voices cry. 

Thus grew the tale of Wonderland: 

Thus slowly, one by one, 

Its quaint events were hammered out— 
And now the tale is done, 

And home we steer, a merry crew, 
Beneath the setting sun. 


AN AGED AGED MAN 

I’ll tell thee everything I can: 

There’s little to relate. 

I saw an aged aged man, 

A-sitting on a gate. 

‘Who are you, aged man?’ I said. 

‘And how is it you live?’ 

And his answer trickled through my head, 
Like water through a sieve. 

He said, ‘I look for butterflies 
That sleep among the wheat: 

I make them into mutton-pies, 

And sell them in the street. 

I sell them unto men,’ he said, 

‘Who sail on stormy seas; 

And that’s the way I get my bread— 

A trifle, if you please.’ 

But I was thinking of a plan 
To dye one’s whiskers green, 

And always use so large a fan 
That they could not be seen. 

So, having no reply to give 
To what the old man said, 

I cried, ‘Come, tell me how you live!’ 
And thumped him on the head. 


168 


The Children's Poets 


His accents mild took up the tale: 

He said ‘I go my ways, 

And when I find a mountain-rill, 

I set it in a blaze; 

And thence they make a stuff they call 
Rowland’s Macassar-Oil— 

Yet twopence-halfpenny is all 
They give me for my toil.’ 

But I was thinking of a way 
To feed oneself on batter, 

And so go on from day to day 
Getting a little fatter. 

1 shook him well from side to side, 
Until his face was blue: 

‘Come^ tell me how you live,’ I cried, 
‘And what it is you do!’ 

He said ‘I hunt for haddocks’ eyes 
Among the heather bright, 

And work them into waistcoat-buttons 
In the silent night. 

And these I do not sell for gold 
Or coin of silvery shine, 

But for a copper halfpenny, 

And that will purchase nine. 

‘I sometimes dig for buttered rolls, 

Or set limed twigs for crabs: 

I sometimes search the grassy knolls 
For wheels of Hansom-cabs. 

And that’s the way’ (he gave a wink) 
‘By which I get my wealth— 

And very gladly will I drink 
Your Honor’s noble health.’ 

I heard him then, for I had just 
Completed my design 
To keep the Menai bridge from rust 
By boiling it in wine. 

I thanked him much for telling me 


Lewis Carroll 


169 


The way he got his wealth, 

But chiefly for his wish that he 
Might drink my noble health. 

And now, if e’er by chance I put 
My fingers into glue, 

Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot 
Into a left-hand shoe, 

Or if I drop upon my toe 
A very heavy weight, 

I weep, for it reminds me so 
Of that old man I used to know— 

Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow, 
Whose hair was whiter than the snow, 

Whose face was very like a crow, 

With eyes, like cinders, all aglow, 

Who seemed distracted with his woe, 

Who rocked his body to and fro, 

And muttered mumblingly and low, 

As if his mouth were full of dough, 

Who snorted like a buffalo— 

That summer evening long ago, 

A-sitting on a gate. 


YOU ARE OLD, FATHER WILLIAM 

“You are old. Father William,” the young man said, 
“And your hair has become very white; 

And yet you incessantly stand on your head— 

Do you think, at your age, it is right?” 

“In my youth,” Father William replied to his son, 

“I feared it might injure the brain; 

But, now that I’m perfectly sure I have none, 

Why, I do it again and again.” 

“You are old,” said the youth, “as I mentioned before, 
A*nd have grown most uncommonly fat; 

Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door— 
Pray, what is the reason of that?” 


170 


The Children’s Poets 


“In my youth,” said the sage, as he shook his gray locks, 
“I kept all my limbs very supple 

By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box— 

Allow me to sell you a couple?” 

“You are old,” said the youth, “and your jaws are too weak 
For anything tougher than suet; 

Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak— 
Pray, how did you manage to do it?” 

“In my youth,” said his father, “I took to the law 
And argued each case with my wife; 

And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw, 

Has lasted the rest of my life.” 

“You are old,” said the youth, “one would hardly suppose 
That your eye was as ready as ever; 

Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose— 

What made you so awfully clever?” 

“I have answered three questions, and that is enough,” 
Said his father; “don’t give yourself airs! 

Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff? 

Be off, or I’ll kick you down stairs!” 


A STRANGE WILD SONG 

He thought he saw a Buffalo 
Upon the chimney-piece: 

He looked again, and found it was 
His Sister’s Husband’s Niece. 

“Unless you leave this house,” he said, 
“I’ll send for the Police.” 

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake 
That questioned him in Greek: 

He looked again, and found it was 
The Middle of Next Week. 

“The one thing I regret,” he said, 

“Is that it cannot speak!” 


Lewis Carroll 


171 


He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk 
Descending from the ’bus: 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Hippopotamus. 

“If this should stay to dine,” he said, 
“There won’t be much for us!” 

He thought he saw a Kangaroo 
That worked a coffee-mill: 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Vegetable-Pill. 

“Were I to swallow this,” he said, 

“I should be very ill.” 

He thought he saw a Coach and Four 
That stood beside his bed: 

He looked again and found it was 
A Bear without a Head. 

“Poor thing,” he said, “poor silly thing! 
It’s waiting to be fed!” 

He thought he saw an Albatross 
That fluttered round the Lamp: 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Penny Postage-Stamp. 

“You’d best be getting home,” he said: 
“The nights are very damp!” 

He thought he saw a Garden Door 
That opened with a key: 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Double-Rule-of-Three: 

“And all its mystery,” he said, 

“Is clear as day to me!” 

He thought he saw an Argument 
That proved he was the Pope: 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Bar of Mottled Soap. 

“A fact so dread,” he faintly said, 
“Extinguishes all hope!” 


172 


The Children s Poets 


THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER 

The sun was shining on the sea, 
Shining with all his might: 

He did his very best to make 
The billows smooth and bright— 

And this was odd, because it was 
The middle of the night. 

The moon was shining sulkily, 
Because she thought the sun 

Had got no business to be there 
After the day was done— 

“It’s very rude of him,” she said, 
“To come and spoil the fun!” 

The sea was wet as wet could be, 
The sands were dry as dry. 

You could not see a cloud, because 
No cloud was in the sky: 

No birds were flying overhead— 
There were no birds to fly. 

The Walrus and the Carpenter 
Were walking close at hand: 

They wept like anything to see 
Such quantities of sand: 

“If this were only cleared away,” 
They said, “it would be grand.” 

“If seven maids with seven mops 
Swept it for half a year, 

Do you suppose,” the Walrus said, 
“That they could get it clear?” 

“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter, 
And shed a bitter tear. 

“0 Oysters, come and walk with us!” 
The Walrus did beseech. 

“A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk, 


Lewis Carroll 


173 


Along the briny beach: 

We cannot do with more than four, 

To give a hand to each.” 

The eldest Oyster looked at him, 

But never a word he said: 

The eldest Oyster winked his eye, 

And shook his heavy head— 

Meaning to say he did not choose 
To leave the oyster-bed. 

But four young Oysters hurried up, 

All eager for the treat: 

Their coats were brushed, their faces washed, 
Their shoes were clean and neat— 

And this was odd, because, you know, 

They hadn’t any feet. 

Four other Oysters followed them, 

And yet another four; 

And thick and fast they came at last, 

And more, and more, and more— 

All hopping through the frothy waves, 

And scrambling to the shore. 

The Walrus and the Carpenter 
Walked on a mile or so, 

And then they rested on a rock 
Conveniently low: 

And all the little Oysters stood 
And waited in a row. 

“The time has come,” the Walrus said, 

“To talk of many things: 

Of shoes—and ships—and sealing wax— 

Of cabbages—and kings— 

And why the sea is boiling hot— 

And whether pigs have wings.” 

“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried, 

“Before we have our chat; 


174 


The Children's Poets 


For some of us are out of breath, 
And all of us are fat!” 

“No hurry!” said the Carpenter. 

They thanked him much for that. 

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said, 
“Is what we chiefly need: 

Pepper and vinegar besides 
Are very good indeed— 

Now, if you’re ready, Oysters dear, 
We can begin to feed.” 

“But not on us!” the Oysters cried, 
Turning a little blue. 

“After such kindness, that would be 
A dismal thing to do!” 

“The night is fine,” the Walrus said. 
“Do you admire the view? 

“It was so kind of you to come! 

And you are very nice!” 

The Carpenter said nothing but 
“Cut us another slice. 

I wish you were not quite so deaf— 
I’ve had to ask you twice!” 

“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said, 
“To play them such a trick. 

After we’ve brought them out so far, 
And made them trot so quick!” 
The Carpenter said nothing but 
“The butter’s spread too thick!” 

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said: 

“I deeply sympathize.” 

With sobs and tears he sorted out 
Those of the largest size, 

Holding his pocket-handkerchief 
Before his streaming eyes. 


Lewis Carroll 


175 


“0 Oysters,” said the Carpenter, 
“You’ve had a pleasant run! 
Shall we be trotting home again?” 

But answer came there none— 
And this was scarcely odd, because 
They’d eaten every one. 


CHAPTER TEN 


Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley 

Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley are naturally, 
almost inevitably coupled in our thoughts, twinned by our 
realization of the poetic kinship of the two men. It is not 
only that they were contemporaries and friends, and that 
they lived in the same section of the country; not only that 
both loved children and were loved of them, that they wrote 
much of them and for them; not only that in some respects 
the experiences, development, and education of the two were 
surprisingly similar. It is rather that Field and Riley are 
men of very much the same intellectual and emotional fiber, 
with somewhat the same interests in life and the same out¬ 
look on life, with the same fondness for the elemental—and 
often for the sentimental—aspects of human nature and the 
humbler, lowlier phases of existence. 

Minor poets, “journalistic” poets, they have been called; 
but both were unquestionably highly endowed with poetic 
powers, both were honest and homespun, natural, spontane¬ 
ous, despising literary snobbishness and priggishness and 
solemn-faced pedantry, and loving everything sweet and fine 
and simple and human. 

It seems best, then, that “in their death they be not di¬ 
vided,” that we deal with these two children’s poets in one 
chapter, indicating in what ways their poetry is alike and in 
what ways different, and pointing out the qualities and the 
contributions of each. 

But first, some account of the events and experiences which 
molded their lives. 


176 


Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley 177 

’Gene Field was born in St. Louis in 1850; but both his 
parents being of New England stock, it was in New England, 
in Massachusetts, that the boy grew up and attended school 
and college. College life failed to hold the brilliant and 
restless youth; and when his father died and left him a small 
legacy, he joyfully squandered it all on a grand tour of 
Europe. 

Having returned to St. Louis and married, he found it 
imperative to choose a vocation. He took what was nearest 
to hand and what was eminently for his hands, journalism. 
From this time until his death, Field was a slave, albeit a 
willing slave, to the newspaper. In St. Joseph, in St. Louis, 
Kansas City, Denver, and finally in Chicago, he served his 
apprenticeship and practiced his art, becoming one of the 
first and to this day one of the foremost of newspaper 
“colyumnists.” 

In Field’s Denver Tribune column called “Odds and 
Ends” and in his more famous Chicago News “Sharps and 
Flats” appeared—along with airy persiflage, epigrams, para¬ 
doxes, gossip, hoaxes—most of the verse upon which his 
reputation depends. Scattered throughout A Little Book of 
Western Verse, A Second Book of Verse, With Trumpet and 
Drum, and Love Songs of Childhood are the children s 
poems, a large collection of tender and beautiful verse, some 
of which the world will not willingly let die. 

Field was not well known to the reading public until ihe 
publication of “Little Boy Blue,” in 1887, but from that time 
on he stood head and shoulders above all practitioners of the 
pleasant art of newspaper verse. He died in 1895, hon¬ 
ored of all men and loved by all their children. 

Field’s married life was a very happy one. He was the 
father of eight children, three girls and five boys. 


178 


The Children's Poets 


James Whitcomb Riley was born in 1849 in Greenfield, 
Indiana, and in Indiana he was brought up, did his work, 
and lived his life. His parents were pioneers, the mother 
from North Carolina, the father from Pennsylvania; and 
James (or “Bud,” to give him his real name) was from his 
childhood familiar with the simple and homely rural and 
village existence pictured so vividly and charmingly in 
his poetry. Riley had meager schooling. But he compen¬ 
sated for this lack by a wealth of educative experiences: 
reading (one of his early favorites was Dickens), learning 
to play all the musical instruments he could get his hands on, 
and studying law in his father’s office—this last under the 
usual parental compulsion. More important than any of 
these, it would seem, in the education of the future Hoosier 
Laureate were the days, and especially the nights, which he 
spent roaming over the country with an itinerant patent medi¬ 
cine company, entertaining with his fiddle and his verses 
the crowds that gathered to buy Wizard Oil. Not a very 
dignified employment, certainly, but perhaps the best ap¬ 
prenticeship Riley could have had for the training of his 
peculiar powers. 

Riley began to find himself when he was given a berth on 
a newspaper in Greenfield and began to contribute verse to 
various periodicals. His growing reputation brought him 
a call to the Indianapolis Journal , and from this time James 
Whitcomb Riley is associated with Indianapolis. In 1883 
was published his first book of verse, The Old Swimmin 
Hole and 9 Leven More Poems. 

Riley touched the hearts of children everywhere and count¬ 
less children wrote to him, expressing in childish language 
their love and trust. He had no children of his own, never 
having married, and consequently all children were on an 
equal footing with him. He loved the “happy ones; and 


Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley 179 

sad ones; the sober and the silent ones; the boisterous and 
glad ones; the good ones—yes, the good ones, too; and all 
the lovely bad ones.” The recognition of his great qualities 
was implicit in the love and veneration with which children 
regarded him and was fittingly observed by Governor Ral¬ 
ston’s proclamation setting aside October 7, 1915, the an¬ 
niversary of the poet’s birth, as Riley Day in Indiana. 

The poet was honored by degrees from Yale University, 
Wabash College, Indiana University, and the University of 
Pennsylvania. He was elected a member of the American 
Academy of Arts and Letters, and received the gold medal 
of the National Institute of Arts and Letters. He died in 
1916. 

Having followed Field and Riley through their constructive 
experiences, let us consider them as children's poets. 

Field and Riley are preeminent among the men and 
women* with whom we have been associating in these studies 
in their “passion for the past,” in their nostalgia for youth, 
in their retrospectiveness. All children’s poets, as I have 
more than once stated, are fond of wandering back into 
their early haunts and living their lives over again, conjuring 
out of the “vasty deep” of the past the scenes and emotions 
of childhood. But none have so frequently and so vividly 
and happily expressed this mood in verse as have these two 
poets. To each of them his childhood was—to use the famil¬ 
iar phrase—“the happiest time of his life,” the period most 
replete with zest and romance and unalloyed, idyllic joy, 
brimful of gladness and contaminated with no taint of hy¬ 
pocrisy. “There’s not a joy the world can give like that 
it takes away”—this they maintain, not polemically but 
poetically, over and over again. Like Mrs. Browning, they 
are forever trying to find their way back to the charm and 
contentment of the Lost Bower; like William Allingham, 


180 


The Children's Poets 


they are haunted by remembrances of the Tarn, which, 
seen in childhood, can never be found again nor ever 
forgotten; like Henry Vaughan, they exclaim, * 

0, how I long to travel back 

And tread again that ancient track! 

Riley is forever exploring the past; every one who knows 
him will recall Old Aunt Mary's, The Old Trundle-bed, Who 
Santy Clause Wuz, Waitin' for the Cat to Die, The Muskingum 
Valley, Our Boyhood Haunts, Up and Down Old Brandy¬ 
wine, The Old Swimming Hole, and dozens of others, in 
which the poet sentimentalizes and rhapsodizes over the small 
chronicles of boyhood. And Field, too, hears often and 
hears gladly the voice that wails “about the moldered lodges 
of the past”; witness The Fire-Hangbird's Nest, To a Little 
Brook, Long Ago, In the Firelight, Our Whippings, The Bell- 
Flower Tree, and When I was a Boy. 

A typical Riley poem on this theme of the past is The 
Days Gone By. 


THE DAYS GONE BY 1 

0 the days gone by! 0 the days gone by! 

The apples in the orchard, and the pathway through the rye; 

The chirrup of the robin, and the whistle of the quail 
As he piped across the meadows sweet as any nightingale; 

When the bloom was on the clover, and the blue was in the sky, 
And my happy heart brimmed over, in the days gone by. 

In the days gone by, when my naked feet were tripped 
By the honeysuckle tangles where the water-lilies dipped, 

And the ripples of the river lipped the moss along the brink 

1 From Rhymes of Childhood, by James Whitcomb Riley, copyright 1890. 
Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 


Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley 181 

Where the placid-eyed and lazy-footed cattle came to drink, 

And the tilting snipe stood fearless of the truant’s wayward cry 
And the splashing of the swimmer, in the days gone by. 

0 the days gone by! 0 the days gone by! 

The music of the laughing lip, the luster of the eye; 

The childish faith in fairies, and Aladdin’s magic ring— 

The simple, soul-reposing, glad belief in everything,— 

When life was like a story, holding neither sob nor sigh, 

In the golden olden glory of the days gone by. 

More imaginative and melodious is Field’s The Brook . 

THE BROOK 

I looked in the brook and saw a face— 

Heigh-ho, but a child was I! 

There were rushes and willows in that place, 

And they clutched at the brook as the brook ran by; 

And the brook it ran its own sweet way, 

As a child doth run in heedless play, 

And as it ran I heard it say: 

“Hasten with me 
To the roistering sea 

That is wroth with the flame of the morning sky!” 

I look in the brook and see a face— 

Heigh-ho, but the years go by! 

The rushes are dead in the old-time place, 

And the willows I knew when a child was I. 

And the brook it seemeth to me to say, 

As ever it stealeth on its way— 

Solemnly now, and not in play: 

“Oh, come with me 
To the slumbrous sea 

That is gray with the peace of the evening sky!” 

Heigh-ho, but the years go by — 

/ would to God that a child were l! 

Now, these are not poems for children,—that demands no 
argument,—though the authors insert them among the poems 


182 


The Children's Poets 


intended for children. Like Whittier’s Barefoot Boy and 
Hood’s I Remember and Longfellow’s My Lost Youth , they 
but express the lovingly regretful, poignantly sweet emotions 
that surge into the heart of the sensitive man or woman 
when the flood-gates of memory are opened. But they are 
utterly alien to the moods of children, hopelessly at variance 
with their forward-looking thoughts and hopes. I have 
quoted these two poems and spoken of the others only be¬ 
cause they represent the fundamental point of view of the 
poets we are discussing. 

Both Field and Riley have a rich vein of fun and nonsense, 
and they mine from it plentifully. Though much of their 
humor is akin to the fun of Lear and Carroll, the American 
poets have introduced a new and effective comic note: the 
mingling of the frightful and the absurd. Most of us—I 
hope—are acquainted with that exquisite feeling of half¬ 
fright, half-amusement that takes possession of us when we 
read or hear a negro ghost-story or some of the Germanic 
folk stories like The Youth who Went forth to Learn what 
Fear Was. The story is droll and grotesque, but there is 
something in it so weird, so shivery and shuddery, that we do 
not know whether to indulge in gooseflesh or giggles. This 
is the original note in Field’s and Riley’s humorous verse. 

Riley especially was fond of this kind of tale: it seemed 
to suit his elfish, waggish humor. He had no fear of 
harming children by frightening them a bit. Perhaps the 
well-known Little Orphant Annie , with its continued and 
convincing asseveration that (6 The Gobble-uns’ll git you , if 
you don’t watch out ” is his masterpiece, though the tale of 
the Lugubrious Whing-Whang, with its refrain of “Tickle 
me, Love, in these lonesome ribs,” is irresistibly funny. I 
quote a poem not so well known: 


Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley 183 

THE NINE LITTLE GOBLINS 1 

They all climbed up on a high board-fence— 

Nine little Goblins, with green-glass eyes— 

Nine little Goblins that had no sense, 

And couldn’t tell coppers from cold mince pies; 

And they all climbed up on the fence, and sat— 

And I asked them what they were staring at. 

And the first one said, as he scratched his head 
With a queer little arm that reached out of his ear 

And rasped its claws in his hair so red— 

“This is what this little arm is fer!” 

And he scratched and stared, and the next one said: 

“How on earth do you scratch your head?” 

And he laughed like the screech of a rusty hinge— 

Laughed and laughed till his face grew black; 

And when he choked, with a final twinge 
Of his stifling laughter, he thumped his back 
With a fist that grew on the end of his tail 
Till the breath came back to his lips so pale. 

And the third little Goblin leered round at me— 

And there were no lids on his eyes at all— 

And he clucked one eye, and he says, says he, 

“What is the style of your socks this fall?” 

And he clapped his heels—and I sighed to see 
That he had hands where his feet should be. 

Then a bald-faced Goblin, gray and grim, 

Bowed his head, and I saw him slip 

His eye-brows off, as I looked at him, 

And paste them over his upper lip; 

And then he moaned in remorseful pain— 

“Would—Ah, would I’d me brows again!” 

And then the whole of the Goblin band 
Rocked on the fence-top to and fro, 

1 From Rhymes of Childhood, by James Whitcomb Riley, copyright 1890. 

Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 


184 


The Children's Poets 


And clung, in a long row, hand in hand, 

Singing the songs .that they used to know— 

Singing the songs that their grandsires sung 
In the goo-goo days of the Goblin-tongue. 

And ever they kept their green-glass eyes 
Fixed on me with a stony stare— 

Till my own grew glazed with a dread surmise, 

And my hat whooped up on my lifted hair, 

And I felt the heart in my breast snap to 
As you’ve heard the lid of a snuff-box do. 

And they sang “You’re asleep! There is no board-fence, 

And never a Goblin with greesn-glass eyes!— 

’Tis only a vision the mind invents 
After a supper of cold mince-pies,— 

And you’re doomed to dream this way,” they said — 

“And you sha’nt wake up till you’re clean plum dead!” 

Field also is fond of what a young friend of mine calls 
the “funny-scary” style of verse: his Seein Things at Night 
compares well with any of Riley’s poems in this genre . But 
he is more at home in the province of the grotesquely non¬ 
sensical, represented by such poems as The Duel (between 
the gingham dog and the calico cat), The Princess Ming, The 
Dismal Dole of the Doodledoo , The Dinkey Bird, The Sugar - 
Plum Tree, The Bottle Tree, The Fly-away Horse —rare fun 
all of them. One of Field’s most delectable stories in what 
Lewis Carroll calls the “portmanteau” verse is this: 

THE TALE OF THE FLIMFLAM 

A flimflam flopped from a fillamaloo, 

Where the pollywog pinkled so pale, 

And the pipkin piped a petulant “pooh” 

To the garrulous gawp of the gale. 

“Oh, woe to the swap of the sweeping swipe 
That booms on the hobbling bay!” 


Eugene Field arid James Whitcomb Riley 185 

Snickered the snark to the snoozing snipe 
That lurked where the lamprey lay. 

The gluglug glinked in the glimmering gloam, 

Where the buzbuz bumbled his bee— 

When the flimflam flitted, all flecked with foam, 

From the oozing and succulent sea. 

“Oh, swither the swipe, with its sweltering sweep!” 

She swore as she swayed in a swoon, 

And a doleful dank dumped over the deep, 

To the lay of the limpid loon! 

This is not so perfect a piece of art as Jabberwocky: it 
lacks the unsmiling earnestness, the straightforward con¬ 
vincingness of Carroll’s masterpiece; but when read aloud 
it is excruciatingly funny, the exaggerated alliteration add¬ 
ing to the “beauty of the nonsense.” 

Riley, as all the world knows, is extremely fond of dialect 
—Hoosier dialect in his verse for grown-ups, child dialect 
in his verse for growing-ups. Little Orphant Annie , The 
Raggedy Man, The Bumblebee, The Boy Lives on our Farm, 
The Squirt-gun Uncle Maked Me, The Runaway Boy, The 
Pet Coon, are typical child-dialect pieces. The following is 
representative of his verse in this manner: 


AT aunty’s HOUSE 1 

One time, when we’z at Aunty’s house— 

’Way in the country!—where 
They’s ist but woods—an’ pigs, an’ cows— 

An’ all’s out-doors an’ air!— 

An’ orchurd-swing; an’ churry-trees— 

An’ churries in ’em!—Yes, an’ these— 

Here red head birds steals all they please, 

1 From Rhymes of Childhood, by James Whitcomb Riley, copyright 1890. 
Used by special permission of the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 


186 


The Children's Poets 


An’ tetch ’em ef you dare!— 

W’y, wunst, one time, when we wuz there, 
We et out on the porch! 

Wite where the cellar-door wuz shut 
The table wuz; an’ I 
Let Aunty set by me an’ cut 
My vittuls up—an’ pie. 

’Tuz awful funny!—I could see 
The red-heads in the churry-tree; 

An’ bee-hives, where you got to be 
So keerful, goin’ by;— 

An’ “Comp’ny” there an’ all!—an’ we— 
We et out on the porch! 


An’ I ist et p'surves an’ things 
’At Ma don’t ’low me to— 

An’ chickun-gizzurds —(don’t like wings 
Like Parunts does! do you?) 

An’ all the time, the wind blowed there, 

An’ I could feel it in my hair, 

An’ ist smell clover everywhere !— 

An’ a’ old red-head flew 
Purt’ nigh wite over my high-chair, 

When we et on the porch! 

No one can doubt that Riley has here edged himself into 
the precise spot from which the little boy gazes out on life. 
The situation is descried exactly as a child would descry it 
and described exactly as a child would describe it: with 
repetition, false starts and incoherence, “flurrious” excite¬ 
ment, emphasis given to those details that would appeal to 
him. The dialect, which also is accurate and true to child- 
language, adds reality and makes the whole a faithful tran¬ 
script of child life. 

Nor can any one doubt, who has read these dialect poems 
to children, that children enjoy them more because of the 


Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley 187 

dialect. Now, since children regard the child-dialect as 
natural and fitting, since it adds the touch of verisimilitude 
which makes the poems clear pictures of life, I for one am 
not disposed to carp and cavil over its use. I will grant that 
it is, in a way, a condescension to the child and a lowering of 
high poetic standards, and that it probably means a tem¬ 
porary rather than a permanent popularity; but despite all 
this I gratefully accord to these pleasant verses, so full of 
sympathetic insight into child-life, so reminiscent of the 
unrestrained, unaffected expression of children, a high place 
in my affections. James Whitcomb Riley has in these 
poems contributed something attractive and distinctive to 
children’s literature. 

Field does not often employ the child-dialect. When he 
does employ it—as in Just 9 fore Christmas, Seein 9 Things, 
and The Limitations of Youth —he handles it skillfully; but 
it is not a favorite form. He has, however, done something 
original in dialect poetry for children, in his imitations of 
old English. The Lyttel Boy, Lollyby, Lolly, Lollyby, and 
Mediaeval Eventide Song are well-known poems in this style. 
Perhaps Lollyby is the quaintest of these. 


LOLLYBY 

Last night, whiles that the curfew bell ben ringing, 
I heard a moder to her dearie singing 
“Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; 

And presently that chylde did cease hys weeping, 
And on his moder’s breast did fall a-sleeping 
To “lolly, lolly, lollyby.” 

Faire ben the chylde unto his moder clinging, 

But fairer yet the moder’s gentle singing— 
“Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; 


188 


The Children's Poets 


And angels came and kisst the dearie smiling 
In dreems while him hys moder ben beguiling 
With “lolly, lolly, lollyby.” 

Then to my harte saies I: “Oh, that thy beating 
Colde be assuaged by some sweete voice repeating 
‘Lollyby, lolly, lollyby’; 

That like this lyttel chylde I, too, ben sleeping 
With plaisaunt phantasies about me creeping, 

To ‘lolly, lolly, lollyby.’” 

Some time—mayhap when curfew bells are ringing— 

A weary harte shall heare straunge voices singing 
“Lollyby, lolly, lollyby”; 

Sometime, mayhap, with Chryst’s love round me streaming, 

I shall be lulled into eternal dreeming, 

With “lolly, lolly, lollyby.” 

Field was “somdel stope in age” when he was introduced 
to the old English through the fascinating language of Sir 
Thomas Malory, and he never mastered the dialect—doubt¬ 
less he did not care to. But he is adept enough to use it 
with plaintive, minor, artless effects. He employs the 
Scotch dialect, also, in one or two of his children’s poems, 
in a manner suggestive of the nursery songs of William 
Miller. 

In one department of children’s poetry Field is clearly 
superior to Riley and to all other children’s poets: in the 
lullaby. Father of eight boys and girls, whom, doubtless, 
he often sang to sleep and over whose slumber he often 
brooded, Field had abundant incentive, inspiration, and sug¬ 
gestion for lullaby-poetry. And no poet has “turned his 
note unto” so many kinds of slumber-songs. Of the one 
hundred and twenty-five pieces in his Poems of Childhood, 
no fewer than twenty-five are distinctively lullabies, while 
others suggest the same mood. He runs the range of na- 


Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley 189 

tionalities: Dutch, Scotch, Japanese, old English, Cornish, 
Orkney, Norse, Jewish, Armenian, Sicilian, Corsican, each 
with its appropriate imagery and in its native melody. He 
touches every responsive chord in the instruments of slumber- 
land; he. lavishes upon the drowsy little folk every term of 
fancy and endearment, as he cuddles them down in his arms 
and croons and rocks them to sleep. Crowned with poppies, 
wrapped in dark-blue, star-bespangled robes, ’Gene Field is. 
chief minstrel in the court of Morpheus, and of his modern 
vice-regent the Sandman. 

From out of all this affluence it is hard to decide which 
of Field s lullabies to reprint. Some of them are in every 
anthology; a few are too sugarishly sentimental. Perhaps 
the following is the most original, as it is the most popular: 


WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 
Sailed off in a wooden shoe— 

Sailed on a river of crystal light, 

Into a sea of dew. 

“Where are you going, and what do you wish?” 

The old moon asked the three. 

“We have come to fish for the herring fish 
That live in this beautiful sea; 

Nets of silver and gold have we!” 

Said Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

The old moon laughed and sang a song, 

As they rocked in the wooden shoe, 

And the wind that sped them all night long 
Ruffled the waves of dew. 

The little stars were the herring fish 
That lived in that beautiful sea— 


190 


The Childrens Poets 


“Now cast your nets wherever you wish— 

Never afeard are we”; 

So cried the stars to the fishermen three: 

Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

All night long their nets they threw 
To the stars in the twinkling foam— 

Then down from the skies came the wooden shoe, 

Bringing the fishermen home; 

’T was all so pretty a sail it seemed 
As if it could not be, 

And some folks thought’t was a dream they’d dreamed 
Of sailing that beautiful sea— 

But I shall name you the fishermen three: 

Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

Wynken and Blynken are two little eyes, 

And Nod is a little head, 

And the wooden shoe that sailed the skies 
Is a wee one’s trundle-bed: 

So shut your eyes while mother sings 
Of wonderful sights that be, 

And you shall see the beautiful things 
As you rock in the misty sea, 

Where the old shoe rocked the fishermen three: 

Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

Riley sings but rarely in this strain. Universal lover of 
children and children’s ways though he was, his bachelor¬ 
hood made impossible for him the intimate, protecting, 
parental tenderness of Field. The only two slumber-songs 
of his that I know of, Slumber-Song and Through Sleepy- 
land , are cold and constrained bits of work. Not often 


Eugene Field and Janies Whitcomb liileij 191 

does he invade the wide and rich demesnes of the nursery: 
it is on the playground that this poet meets his young friends. 

Neither does Riley frequent the cemetery—a favorite 
haunt of Field’s. Not even Christina Rossetti chants as 
many dirges over dead children as does Field. At least one 
sixth of the poems listed by Field as children’s poems deal 
with the death of children. Among the most touching of 
these are Krinken, Christmas Treasures, Little Homer s 
Slate, and The Dead Babe. But most affecting of them all 
—perhaps Field’s most perfect poem and the finest of all 
poems on this theme—is Little Boy Blue . 


LITTLE BOY BLUE 

The little toy dog is covered with dust, 

But sturdy and stanch he stands; 

And the little toy soldier is red with rust, 

And his musket molds in his hands. 

Time was when the little toy dog was new, 

And the soldier was passing fair; 

And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue 
Kissed them and put them there. 

“Now don’t you go till I come,” he said, 

“And don’t you make any noise!” 

So, toddling off to his trundle-bed, 

He dreamt of his pretty toys; 

And, as he was dreaming, an angel song 
Awakened our Little Boy Blue— 

Oh! the years are many, the years are long, 

But the little toy friends are true! 

Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, 

Each in the same old place— 

Awaiting the touch of a little hand, 

The smile of a little face; 

And they wonder, as waiting the long years through 


192 


The Children's Poets 


In the dust of that little chair, 

What has become of our Little Boy Blue, 

Since he kissed them and put them there. 

Field’s frequent and highly personal treatment of the 
death of children leads the reader to suspect a tragic be¬ 
reavement. He did lose a baby son while he was still liv¬ 
ing in St. Jo, and he wrote Christmas Treasures not long 
after this event. But it was not until 1890 that his Melvin, 
his oldest boy, died; and Little Boy Blue and nearly all the 
child-dirges had been published before that time. There is 
little of the autobiographical in these poems; the poet, hav¬ 
ing suffered the loss of one baby, was sensitized by this ex¬ 
perience, so that his imagination and his sympathies were 
easily evoked and his feelings readily aroused by anything 
that suggested the death of a little child. 

But these dirges, beautiful though they are, are not chil¬ 
dren’s poetry:— 


A simple child, 

That lightly draws its breath, 

And feels its life in every limb, 

What should it know of death? 

Children are not affected by death, not concerned with it; 
even the loss of mother or father is but a minor episode 
in the life of the average little child. It is simply beyond 
their circle of interests and feelings, and poetry woven out 
of reflections on death is not within their scope. We may 
well pity the man or woman, whether childless or blessed 
with a family of little ones, who is not touched to the quick 
by Little Boy Blue and the best of Field’s verse on this 
theme; but children can never respond to the poigncnt 
emotions with which such poems are instinct. 


Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley 193 

Riley, as I have said, does not often enter these sad pre¬ 
cincts. He knows full well that 

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, 

and not infrequently his children’s poems give hints of sad¬ 
ness and tragedy. But in only one or two instances does he 
really construct his poetry out of the images of death. 
Little David is a poem of this kind, but not a very good one; 
When Bessie Died is better. But Riley too directly and ob¬ 
viously attacks our sensibilities, is too openly anxious to 
make us weep; Field’s method is to suggest, to stimulate our 
imagination and lure us insensibly into the valley of the 
shadow. 

As I have previously intimated, Riley is at his best when 
he writes of the joyous scenes and experiences of children. 
Eating, playing, idling around, listening to fairy and goblin 
stories and nonsense jingles, or hearing the “hired man” phil¬ 
osophize; the epochal events of child life, such as the circus 
parade, eating on the porch, celebrating Christmas; children 
in groups (they are nearly always in groups, as Stevenson’s 
little boy is nearly always solitary); animals and the sunnier 
aspects of country life—these are his favorite themes. These 
he handles surpassingly well. And he has come nearer 
picturing the normal urchin, the average flesh-and-blood 
youngster, than perhaps any poet of childhood. He pleads 
most eloquently for the rights of the boy “in the raw” in his 
essay on Dialect in Literature : 

Literature cannot possibly tolerate the presence of any but the 
refined children—the very proper children— the studiously thought¬ 
ful, poetic children;—and these must be kept safe from the con¬ 
taminating touch of our rough-and-tumble little fellows in “hodden 
gray,” with frowsly heads, begrimed but laughing faces, and such 


194 


The Children's Poets 


awful, awful vulgarities of naturalness, and crimes of simplicity, 
and brazen faith and trust, and love of life and everybody in 
it. All other real people are getting into Literature; and without 
some real children along will they not soon be getting lonesome, 
too? 

Undoubtedly Riley’s family of children are real, all the 
more real because of the child-talk in which they express 
themselves. And they are an attractive family, too—Huck 
Finn is a more wholesome specimen of boy than little Lord 
Fauntleroy. But authentic as these poems are as pictures of 
child-life, many of them are too deeply interpenetrated with 
the introspectiveness and retrospectiveness of age to be genu¬ 
ine poems for children. 

Field’s realm is in the home. To be sure, he has much to 
say of children at play, but the image conjured up by most 
of his verse is of a single child in the home, in the presence 
of mother or father. He is as fond of ragamuffiny “infant 
terrors” as Riley, but his distinctive contributions to chil¬ 
dren’s literature are in the provinces of the lullaby and the 
“laughable lyrics.” 

Neither Field nor Riley is intent on moralizing. They 
take children as they are, they bid them enjoy themselves to 
the full, to extract the utmost pleasure out of life, to be nat¬ 
ural and child-like—surely a more sensible attitude and an 
attitude more conducive to the creation of realistic and 
artistic poems of childhood than the attitude of the Taylor 
sisters or Charles and Mary Lamb and others of that school. 
Yet it is noteworthy that when the two poets under discus¬ 
sion are in the mood for it, they can produce solid and beau¬ 
tiful poetry of the more serious sort, as call to witness the 
following poem of Field’s, one of the most delicately-carved 
of all his poems: 


Eugene Field and James Whitcomb Riley 195 

INSCRIPTION FOR MY LITTLE SON’S SILVER PLATE 

When thou dost eat from off this plate, 

I charge thee be thou temperate; 

Unto thine elders at the board 
Do thou sweet reverence accord; 

And, though to dignity inclined, 

Unto the serving-folk be kind; 

Be ever mindful of the poor, 

Nor turn them hungry from the door; 

And unto God, for health and food 
And all that in thy life is good, 

Give thou thy heart in gratitude. 

Both Field and Riley are skillful versifiers; their sense 
of rhythm is unerring. Both are fond of rapid-running, 
jingling movement, especially in their humorous verse. They 
summon alliteration, assonance, onomatopoeia, and similar 
devices to their aid, and employ all the arts known to Mother 
Goose and other quantitative verse-makers. Perhaps they 
sometimes overwork the anapaestic measure; occasionally 
they slip almost into doggerel; but the crisp, staccato, snare- 
drum beating of the verses falls with such exhilarating effect 
upon the ear that we may forgive them their infrequent 
lapses. I believe that children’s delight in hearing Field 
and Riley read aloud is largely due to the tripping, jingling 
dance of the meter. 

Despite all that can be brought forward to support the 
claims of these two poets to rank as children’s poets, and 
despite the Field-Riley cult that has grown up, and despite 
the lovable personal qualities of the two men, I do not assign 
to them the highest place in the coterie of poets for children. 
We have hypnotized school-children into admiration of them; 
we celebrate their birthdays and hang their pictures in our 
schoolrooms. Because they love children and understand 


196 


The Children's Poets 


them and write of childhood so frequently, we have fallen 
into a habit of referring to them as the “childhood poets’ 
quite as a matter of course. Nine out of ten primary teach¬ 
ers name them first in any discussion of those who write 
verses for little folks. Both of them would be, could be ex¬ 
quisite poets for children if they did not allow their maturity 
to obtrude itself so often between them and the children. 
“I” in many of the poems is too often the poet, and not the 
child. The living personality of the two men has given them 
far more importance and popularity than the poets them¬ 
selves deserve. Riley kept up acquaintance with a large 
number of children; some of his letters to young friends of 
his are beautiful and sympathetic; Field was a splendid play¬ 
mate of children; his delight in toys and sports indicates his 
own childlike nature. I would not lessen in the slightest the 
good-fellowship and love which Field and Riley inspire in 
children through their personality and through their poetry. 
But they are not the first nor the greatest among the chil¬ 
dren’s poets. 

Eugene Field’s verses for children are to be found in 
The Poems of Eugene Field, published by Charles Scribner’s 
Sons, New York, under the caption Poems of Childhood, 
though, of course, many splendid editions of the different 
poems have been made. Riley’s poems for children are 
scattered through many volumes, but the most of them and 
the best of them are in Child Rhymes, Bobbs-Merrill Com¬ 
pany, Indianapolis; and The Child World, Bowen-Merrill 
Company, Indianapolis; the first of these volumes is gener¬ 
ously and gracefully illustrated. 


CHAPTER ELEVEN 


Frank Dempster Sherman 

A slim little volume, bearing the pretty title, Little-Folk 
Lyrics (Houghton Mifflin Company), contains the poems 
written for children by Frank Dempster Sherman. 

Of Sherman little need be said. He was born in 1860, at 
Peekskill, New York; was educated at Columbia and Har¬ 
vard, and for some years before his death held the chair of 
Graphics at Columbia University. He died in 1916. 
Among his favorite poets were Milton, Keats, Herrick, 
Tennyson, Emerson, Aldrich,—poets noted for musical 
power, for delicacy and grace and careful workmanship, 
three of whom, Herrick, Aldrich, and Keats, exerted a decided 
influence upon Mr. Sherman’s verse. Little-Folk Lyrics ap¬ 
peared in 1892 and was revised and enlarged in 1897. 
Of it the poet says, “My Little-Folk Lyrics are just the 
records of my very happy childhood’s memories and fancies: 
I imagine that almost every grown-up has something like 
them tucked away in heart and head.” 

Sherman belongs distinctively to the Stevenson school of 
children’s poets. Perhaps it will be profitable to compare 
Mr. Sherman with his predecessor and preceptor. 

Both Stevenson’s and Sherman’s poetry for children is 
almost exclusively lyric. In Sherman’s volume there is, I 
believe, only one story in verse. Both poets interest them¬ 
selves in children’s moods, impressions, emotions, and 
experiences; both succeed in recapturing their own childish 
fancies and thoughts, and the memory-children of the two 
poets are as alike as twins. These children are rather 
solitary, wistful, fanciful little boys—indoor children, one 
197 


198 


The Children's Poets 


might almost say, fond of observing the world through 
the window pane. On account of delicate health, they seem 
to be prevented from wandering afield and are obliged to 
create their universe out of stray glimpses of the real world 
beyond the front gates. The verses of both poets sound a 
minor note, a note of plaintiveness, which is beautiful and 
poignant in its appeal. 

Neither Stevenson nor Sherman makes much use of the 
nonsense element, but often enough provokes a smile from a 
grown-up reader—even as children themselves often do 
from the grown-up observer. Every lover of children is 
acquainted with the mood so often induced by the sight of 
them—that half-laughing, half-tearful mood, brought on by 
their quaint sayings, sometimes so startlingly wise and pro¬ 
found; by their innocence, often finding expression in words 
so naive and primitive; by their helplessness, which, never¬ 
theless, so frequently foretells future strength. Unfortu¬ 
nate the man or women, unworthy the teacher, who does not 
feel this strange attraction in children! As De Quincey says: 
“By the pity, by the tenderness, and by the peculiar modes 
of admiration, which connect themselves with the helpless-' 
ness, with the innocence, and with the simplicity of children, 
not only are the primal affections strengthened and continu¬ 
ally renewed, but the qualities which are dearest in the sight 
of heaven—the frailty, for instance, which appeals to the 
forbearance, the innocence which symbolizes the heavenly, 
and the simplicity which is most alien from the worldly—are 
kept in perpetual remembrance and their ideas are con¬ 
stantly refreshed.” 

The sensitive person feels this emotion when he reads A 
Child's Garden of Verses and Little-Folk Lyrics. Stevenson 
and Sherman write almost entirely from the child’s stand- 


Frank Dempster Sherman 199 

point; they see the world through the questioning eyes of a 
real child. It is due to the fact that they reproduce with 
such minute fidelity the capricious moods and the wayward 
fancies of children that their verses are so attractive to ma¬ 
ture readers. 

Both poets usually wrote in quatrains. Of the two, Mr. 
Sherman has the more variety. Both are careful to avoid 
inversions and long, complex sentences, the end of each line 
or each couplet usually marking the end of the phrase. Both 
avoid slang and colloquial language, both have the artist’s 
feeling for fine diction; yet in both the style is easy and 
familiar. Neither “talks down” to children, yet both con¬ 
fine themselves to language within the comprehension of the 
average child of eight or ten; neither confuses childishness, 
and childlikeness. Incidentally, it is interesting to note the 
resemblance between the favorite stanza form of children’s 
poetry and that of the popular ballads—between the form of 
the two, not the subject matter. 

Mr. Sherman’s favorite themes are: The Months; Phe¬ 
nomena of the Weather and Seasons; Animate Nature, espe¬ 
cially birds and flowers. Let us briefly examine the three. 

Poems on the Months. These are twelve in number, one 
for each month. The poems are beautiful in themselves 
and are, as a group, unmatched in children’s poetry, although 
not a few children’s poets have essayed the same subject. All 
of these poems are worth teaching and memorizing. Chil¬ 
dren find keen pleasure in marching along with the months 
as the year progresses, in constructing a poetical calendar. 
A representative poem in this group is May , but others are 
quite as enjoyable. 

Poems on the Weather and Natural Phenomena. To the 
observant, home-keeping child of Mr. Sherman’s volume, the 


200 


The Children's Poets 


panorama of the seasons, the kaleidoscopic transformations 
of the weather, furnish much food for fancy. The wind, 
the frost, snow, clouds, the rain and the rainbow, sunlight 
and shadow, “seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and 
summer and winter, and day and night,”—all are full of 
beauty and suggestiveness. And it is in this group of poems 
that Mr. Sherman’s insight into child nature is most acute 
and his fancifulness most exquisite. What child does not 
brood over the mysterious phenomena of the elements, and 
invent explanations to satisfy his peering, prying intellect? 
And what child does not find the clue to every mystery in 
personification? To him the frost is a miracle wrought 
by fairies, the lightning is the arrow of an invisible archer, 
the leaves scattered by the wind are romping sprites, the stars 
are lamps for gnomes and elves in the sky. That is the way 
the primitive peoples accounted for movements and changes 
in Nature, and that is the way in which the child’s mind reads 
the riddles that Nature is continually propounding. 

Mr. Sherman’s little boy evidently prefers the winter; at 
least some of his prettiest fancies cluster around that season. 
Here is one of the best. 


SNOW SONG 

Over valley, over hill, 

Hark the shepherd piping shrill! 
Driving all the white flocks forth 
From the far folds of the North. 
Blow, Wind, blow, 

Weird melodies you play, 
Following your flocks that go 
Across the world today. 

How they hurry, how they crowd 
When they hear the music loud! 


201 


Frank Dempster Sherman 

Grove and lane and meadow full 
Sparkle with their shining wool. 

Blow, Wind, blow, 

Until the forest ring: 

Teach the eaves the tunes you know. 

And make the chimneys sing! 

Hither, thither, up and down 
Every highway of the town, 

Huddling close, the white flocks all 
Gather at the shepherd’s call. 

Blow, Wind, blow 

Upon your pipes of joy; 

All your sheep the flakes of snow 
And you their shepherd boy! 

Animate Nature, especially Birds and Flowers . This is 
the theme of the third division of Sherman’s children’s poems. 
In his interesting book, The Making of Poetry , Dr. Arthur 
H. R. Fairchild constructs a graded list of the images of 
poetry in ascending scale, as follows: stone, earth, fire, water, 
plant, animal, bird, man. That is, from these eight classes 
the poet selects his material, in the order named; and into 
them he projects his personality—less into stone, more into 
plants, most into man. I suspect that is generally true—in 
poetry written for adults. But children’s poetry makes little 
use of man as a theme. Analysis of character; motives, pas¬ 
sions, the inextricable mingling of good and evil, the clash¬ 
ing of opposing personalities—of this, for all it is the high¬ 
est theme of poetry for men and women, children’s poetry 
takes little account. If Doctor Fairchild were to arrange 
a scale of themes for children’s poetry, he would have to place 
man farther down in the list, or omit him altogether; and 
he would have to give to plants and animals, and especially 
to flowers and birds, the highest station. The child is, in 


204 


The Children’s Poets 


deriving exquisite pleasure from “untwisting all the chains 
that tie” the beautiful fancies together. 

In any attempt to appraise children’s poetry, Little-Folk 
Lyrics must be regarded as a faithful interpretation and an 
artistic expression of certain fundamental qualities and 
thoughts of childhood. In dignity, sweetness, melody, and 
fancifulness, Mr. Sherman’s poems deserve a high place in 
our affections and in our “Golden Treasury of Children’s 
Poetry.” 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


Laura Elizabeth Richards 

Of the fifteen children’s poets analyzed in these essays, 
only seven are women. Of those seven only three were 
mothers, and as poets for children these three are not the 
finest. One would naturally suppose that mother love 
would have inspired a great deal of children’s poetry. One 
would suppose that the unique experience of motherhood, and 
the knowledge of children and the love for children which is 
the heritage of motherhood, would be the source and motive 
of the choicest poetry in the children’s anthology. One 
would suppose that the interests and activities of one’s own 
children would be the most fertile soil for the growth of 
children’s song and rhyme and story. 

With a moments reflection we discover our error. Mother 
love finds its highest and most serene and satisfying expres¬ 
sion, not in writing for children, but in ministering to them; 
not in composing songs for imaginary or memory children, 
but in singing some one else’s songs to one’s own children; 
not in brooding on children’s emotions and qualities and 
tastes and characteristics, but in bending over really-for-sure 
Willie’s and Annie’s. Motherhood is a most absorbing 
profession. There is little time or desire to write children’s 
poetry when life is filled with children’s love and children’s 
troubles, with children’s appetites and sleep and play, with 
stubbed toes and lost marbles, torn clothes, and—and buttons! 
Poor Charles Lamb may have the solace of his Dream 
Children , may see 

their unborn faces shine 
Beside the never-lighted fire. 

205 


204 


The Children’s Poets 


deriving exquisite pleasure from “untwisting all the chains 
that tie” the beautiful fancies together. 

In any attempt to appraise children’s poetry, Little-Folk 
Lyrics must be regarded as a faithful interpretation and an 
artistic expression of certain fundamental qualities and 
thoughts of childhood. In dignity, sweetness, melody, and 
fancifulness, Mr. Sherman’s poems deserve a high place in 
our affections and in our “Golden Treasury of Children’s 
Poetry.” 


CHAPTER TWELVE 


Laura Elizabeth Richards 

Of the fifteen children’s poets analyzed in these essays, 
only seven are women. Of those seven only three were 
mothers, and as poets for children these three are not the 
finest. One would naturally suppose that mother love 
would have inspired a great deal of children’s poetry. One 
would suppose that the unique experience of motherhood, and 
the knowledge of children and the love for children which is 
the heritage of motherhood, would be the source and motive 
of the choicest poetry in the children’s anthology. One 
would suppose that the interests and activities of one’s own 
children would be the most fertile soil for the growth of 
children’s song and rhyme and story. 

With a moments reflection we discover our error. Mother 
love finds its highest and most serene and satisfying expres¬ 
sion, not in writing for children, but in ministering to them; 
not in composing songs for imaginary or memory children, 
but in singing some one else’s songs to one’s own children; 
not in brooding on children’s emotions and qualities and 
tastes and characteristics, but in bending over really-for-sure 
Willie’s and Annie’s. Motherhood is a most absorbing 
profession. There is little time or desire to write children’s 
poetry when life is filled with children’s love and children’s 
troubles, with children’s appetites and sleep and play, with 
stubbed toes and lost marbles, torn clothes, and—and buttons! 
Poor Charles Lamb may have the solace of his Dream 
Children , may see 

their unborn faces shine 
Beside the never-lighted fire. 

205 


206 


The Children's Poets 


That is an insipid joy compared with the sight of one’s own 
children dreaming. The mother does not need the empty 
pleasure of producing poetry for children; she is too happily 
engrossed with rearing children. It is not the farmer that 
rhapsodizes over nature, it is not the soldier that makes the 
battle songs, it is not the toper that writes the convivial 
verses: they are too absorbed in the actualities of farming, 
fighting, and tippling to find delight in the expression of their 
emotions. And usually it is not the mother that writes chil¬ 
dren’s literature—for reasons which are summed up pretty 
well by the child who was asked, upon her return from a 
party, if she had enjoyed herself: “I don’t know yet; I’ve 
been too busy to think about that”—a remark that may be 
placed alongside Wordsworth’s famous dictum: “Poetry is 
emotion recollected in tranquillity .” 

Laura Elizabeth Richards is not only an exception to the 
general rule, but a very striking exception. She is the mother 
of seven children and the author of fifty books for children 
—seven books for each child. Among these fifty books are 
three volumes of children’s poetry: In My Nursery (1890), 
The Hurdy-Gurdy (1902), and The Piccolo (1906). Many 
other poems of Mrs. Richards’ are in the volumes Five- 
Minute Stories (1891) and More Five-Minute Stories (1903). 
The first of these five volumes is published by Little, Brown 
and Company; the others by Dana, Estes and Company. 
Since the earliest volume contains, in my opinion, the best 
specimens of our poet’s work, I shall quote largely from it, 
though what I shall say applies almost equally well to the 
other volumes. Of her prose writings, it is enough to say 
here that The Joyous Story of Toto, Captain January , and 
Melody are among her most popular stories. 

Mrs. Richards was born in 1850. She was well endowed; 


Laura Elizabeth Richards 


207 


for her father was Samuel Gridley Howe, philanthropist, 
patriot, author, teacher of the blind Laura Bridgeman; and 
her mother was Julia Ward Howe, author of The Battle Hymn 
of the Republic , one of the most talented and gracious of 
women. To have in one’s veins the blood of such parents is 
to receive a rich endowment from heredity; and to be reared 
under the love and tuition of such parents is to obtain a splen¬ 
did equipment from education and environment. It must 
afford Mrs. Richards keen pleasure to realize that she has 
paid to the full the debt owed to her parents, paid it as they 
would desire: in making the world of childhood richer and 
happier. 

Mrs. Richards has a keen sense of rhythm. Her lines 
scan according to the rules for quantitative verse—and quan¬ 
titative verse is the kind she usually writes. The sense of 
rhythm appears early in a child’s life; but if it is not nour¬ 
ished on verse and song, it soon disappears. It is a fairy 
gift: not being used, it fades away. Mrs. Richards’ early 
appearing feeling for rhythm was discerned and developed 
by her mother. “I was raised on Lear,” she says. “Much 
of my sense of rhythm and music,” she writes to me, “is due 
to my beloved mother, who sang me through my own child¬ 
hood”; and in the dedicatory poem of In My Nursery she 
acknowledges gratefully and graciously her indebtedness 
to her mother’s “silver-singing voice.” Doubtless, Mrs. 
Richards does owe much of her sense of rhythm to her 
mother; but she owes almost as much, I believe, to her chil¬ 
dren. If she was raised on Lear, she “raised her babies on 
Carroll and Stevenson,” which was as good schooling for her 
as for the babies. In a sense, she is a poet of childhood be¬ 
cause she was a mother of children. Other poets are most 
inspired while walking or smoking or sitting in a favorite 


208 


The Children's Poets 


seat; Mrs. Richards is most inspired when she has a baby in 
her arms. When she was asked how she composes, she re¬ 
plied: “I begin to sing to my babies, often making an air, 
or what passes for an air, to fit the words. As there were 
seven babies, there are many verses. By far the best of my 
verse came in this way, spontaneously.” This, by the by, 
accounts in part for the Mother Goose rhythm in Mrs. Rich¬ 
ards’ verses, for the Mother Goose jingles must have devel¬ 
oped in about this same way. When Mrs. Richards issues 
another volume of poems—as her admirers hope she will— 
I suggest that in the dedicatory poem she acknowledge her 
indebtedness to her children for finishing what her mother 
began. 

At any rate, Mrs. Richards’ feeling for rhythm is remark¬ 
ably strong and accurate. Let me quote a nonsense poem 
to illustrate. As you read it (aloud, of course), notice the 
sprightliness and spontaneity, the rhythmic recurrence of 
the beats, which is emphasized by the alliteration. Notice 
also that, though the movement is regular, the number of 
syllables in the feet is quite irregular. It is almost as 
good, in this respect, as Mother Goose—no higher praise can 
be bestowed. 


THE PHRISKY PHROG 

Now list, oh! list to the piteous tale 
Of the Phrisky Phrog and the Sylvan Snayle; 

Of their lives and their loves, their joys and their woes, 
And all about them that any one knows. 

The Phrog lived down in a grewsome bog, 

The Snayle in a hole in the end of a log; 

And they loved each other so fond and true, 

They didn’t know what in the world to do. 


Laura Elizabeth Richards 


209 


For the Snayle declared ’twas too cold and damp 
For a lady to live in a grewsome swamp; 

While her lover replied, that a hole in a log 
Was no possible place for a Phrisky Phrog. 

“Come down! come down, my beautiful Snayle! 

With your helegant horns and your tremulous tail; 

Come down to my bower in the blossomy bog, 

And be happy with me,” said the Phrisky Phrog. 

“Come up, come up, to my home so sweet, 

Where there’s plenty to drink, and the same to eat; 

Come up where the cabbages bloom in the vale, 

And be happy with me,” said the Sylvan Snayle. 

But he wouldn’t come, and she wouldn’t go, 

And so they could never be married, you know; 

Though they loved each other so fond and true, 

They didn’t know what in the world to do. 

Undoubtedly it is in the nonsense vein that Mrs. Richards 
excels. Her gayety, her humorous fancifulness, her ability 
and agility in rhyming the most absurdly unrhymable 
words, her delight in alliteration and the lighter, brighter 
aspects of versification, her unerring use of quantitative 
rhythm—all this equips her completely for the composition 
of this delightful species of poetry. 

But she has not confined herself to nonsense verse; she 
has written much in serious mood. Here is one of her pret¬ 
tiest lullabies. 


ANOTHER “GOOD-NIGHT” 

Birds, birds, in the linden-tree, 

Low, low, let your music be. 

Bees, bees, in the garden bloom, 
Hushed, hushed, be your drowsy hum. 
Wind, wind, through the lattice waft 


210 


The Children's Poets 


Still, still, thy breathing soft. 

Flowers, sweet be the breath you shed; 
Two little children are going to bed. 


Eyes, eyes, ’neath your curtains white, 

Veiled, veiled, be the sunny light. 

Lips, lips, like the roses red, 

Soft, soft, be your sweet prayers said. 

Feet, feet, that have danced all day, 

Now, now, must your dancing stay. 

Low, low, lay each golden head: 

Two little children are going to bed. 

Here is another on the same theme, but in quite a dif¬ 
ferent spirit. The refrain, with its swinging rhythm, its 
repetitions, its suggestion of low-toned, monotonous crooning, 
is very effective. It should be recited, or chanted, after 
each stanza. 


johnny’s by*low song 

Here on our rock-away horse we go, 
Johnny and I, to a land we know,— 

Far away in the sunset gold, 

A lovelier land than can be told. 

Refrain 

Where all the flowers go niddlety nod, 
Non, nod, niddlety nod; 

Where all the flowers go niddlety nod, 
And all the birds sing by-low. 

Lullaby, lullaby, by-low. 

The gates are ivory set with pearls, 

One for the boys, and one for the girls; 
So shut your bonny two eyes of blue, 

Or else they will never let you through. 

{Refrain) 


Laura Elizabeth Richards 


211 


But what are the children all about? 

There’s never a laugh and never a shout. 

Why, they all fell asleep, dear, long ago; 

For how could they keep awake, you know? 

( Refrain ) 

And each little brown or golden head 
Is pillowed soft in a satin bed^— 

A satin bed with sheets of silk, 

As soft as down and as white as milk. 

( Refrain ) 

The brook in its sleep goes babbling by, 

And the fat little clouds are asleep in the sky; 

And now little Johnny is sleeping too, 

So open the gates and pass him through. 

( Refrain ) 

Where all the flowers go niddlety nod, 

Non, nod, niddlety nod; 

Where all the flowers go niddlety nod, 

And all the birds sing by-low. 

Lullaby, lullaby, by-low. 

Mrs. Richards’ poetry, however, is not confined to lulla¬ 
bies and nonsense songs. It includes almost every phase and 
experience of child life in the home. Hers is a very ver¬ 
satile muse: it sings of The First Tooth , In the Closet, A 
Party , The Corn-popper, of the swing, the bath, of lessons, 
play and work—all the activities and interests of normal 
children. It is in this respect that Mrs. Richards differs 
most widely from the other poets we have considered. Her 
best poetry, aside from the nonsense verses, is based on and 
deals with the home life of a family of healthy, happy chil¬ 
dren; and her attitude toward them is the attitude of an in- 


212 


The Children's Poets 


telligent mother: loving, sympathetic, interested in their 
interests, chiding them for faults and laughing at their 
foibles. Her children are normal children, who have the 
jolliest, freest time imaginable consistent with proper up¬ 
bringing, who enjoy each other and their home, who love 
their mother and hate their geography lessons, whose life 
is full of play and pleasure, whose individualities are re¬ 
spected and cultivated. It is a happy, sensible, successful 
home that Mrs. Richards presents in her verses—which is 
not least among the values of her work. 

Of course, Mrs. Richards loves children and understands 
them, and children love and understand her. Some of her 
verses are among the favorites in the schoolroom and are 
even more popular in the home. As a poet of the nursery, 
as a “poet of common life” among children, as a poet of gay 
nonsense and lively fun, as a poet of child life from the 
mother’s outlook and with the mother’s insight, she is un¬ 
surpassed. She combines the facile rhythm of Mother 
Goose with the grotesque humor of Lear and Carroll, and 
with the smiling tenderness, the intuitive understanding, the 
comprehensive love, of a mother. Although she herself 
calls her lyre only a hurdy-gurdy, well may she claim a place 
among the children’s poets. 


Laura Elizabeth Richards 


213 


SELECTIONS FROM LAURA ELIZABETH RICHARDS 

Once I longed to be a poet; 

Longed to touch the lovely lyre; 

Joy celestial, I would know it, 

Holy rage and tragic fire. 

So I twanged amain, while swelled 
Loud my carol, loud and wordy, 

Till, glancing at the thing I held,— 

Lo, it was a hurdy-gurdy! 

Turn, my hurdy-gurdy, turn! 

Not for thee the songs of wonder; 

Not for thee the words that burn, 

Not for thee the chords that thunder. 

Nay! but if thy reedy trill, 

Piping gay as morning birdie, 

Bring the children dancing still, 

Turn, oh turn, my hurdy-gurdy! 

Look! the poet stands apart, 

With his clear eyes raised to heaven. 

Pain and rapture shake his heart, 

But the best to grief is given. 

Lonely stands he there and high, 

Pointing upward, stern and single: 

Hurdy-gurdy, thou and I 

With the jostling crowds must mingle. 

Turn, my hurdy-gurdy, turn! 

Raise the song that breaks in laughter! 

Goodly wages we shall earn, 

If a child come tripping after. 

Little maids, all cherry-ripe, 

Little lads, all brown and sturdy, 

While they follow at thy pipe, 

Turn, still turn, my hurdy-gurdy. 

Sweet are tears that lovers shed; 

Thrilling falls the kiss of passion; 


214 


The Children's Poets 


Deep the note that mourns the dead; 

Wildly clear the bugle’s fashion. 
Crashing goes life’s symphony, 

Sobbing, laughing, pain and pleasure; 
Hurdy-gurdy, thou and I, 

Keep we true our tiny measure! 

Turn, my hurdy-gurdy, turn! 

Sing, whatever skies be dreary, 

Let no child in sadness yearn; 

Keep the babies bright and cheery! 
Every day be glad and gay, 

Rosy, cosy, cream-and-curdy; 

Dancing, glancing down the way, 

Turn, still turn, my hurdy-gurdy! 


THE LITTLE GNOME 

Once there lived a little gnome 
Who had made his little home 
Right down in the middle of the earth, earth, earth. 

He was full of fun and frolic, 

But his wife was melancholic, 

And he never could divert her into mirth, mirth, mirth. 

He had tried her with a monkey 
And a parrot and a donkey, 

And a pig that squealed whene’er he pulled its tail, tail, 
tail. 

But though he laughed himself 
Into fits, the jolly elf, 

Still his wifey’s melancholy did not fail, fail, fail. 

“I will hie me,” said the gnome, 

“From my worthy earthy home; 

I will go among the dwellings of the men, men, men. 
Something funny there must be, 

That will make her say, ‘He, he!’ 

I will find it and will bring it her again, ’gain, ’gain.” 


Laura Elizabeth Richards 215 

So he traveled here and there, 

And he saw the Blinking Bear, 

And the Pattypol whose eyes are in his tail, tail, tail. 

And he saw the Linking Loon, 

Who was playing his bassoon, 

And the Octopus a-waltzing with the whale, whale, whale. 

He saw the Chingo Chee, 

And a lovely sight was he, 

With a ringlet and a ribbon on his nose, nose, nose; 

And the Baggie, and the Wogg, 

And the Cantilunar Dog, 

Who was throwing cotton-flannel at his foes, foes, foes. 

All these the little gnome 
Transported to his home, 

And set them down before his weeping wife, wife, wife. 

But she only cried and cried, 

And she sobbywobbed and sighed, 

Till she really was in danger of her life, life, life. 

Then the gnome was in despair, 

And he tore his purple hair, 

And he sat down in sorrow on a stone, stone, stone. 

“I, too,” he said, “will cry, 

Till I tumble down and die, 

For I’ve had enough of laughing all alone, ’lone, ’lone.” 

His tears they flowed away, 

Like a rivulet at play, 

With a bubble, gubble, rubble, o’er the ground, ground, 
ground. 

But when this wifey saw, 

She loudly cried “Haw, haw! 

Here at last is something funny you have found, found, 
found.” 

She laughed, “Ho, ho! he, he!” 

And she chuckled loud with glee, 

And she wiped away her little husband’s tears, tears, tears. 
And since then, through wind and weather, 


The Children's Poets 


216 


They have said “He, he!” together, 

For several hundred thousand merry years, years, years. 

GEOGRAPHI 

(Air: There was a maid in my countree.) 

There was a man in Manitoba, 

The only man that ever was thar; 

His name was Nicholas Jones McGee, 

And he loved a maid in Mirimichi. 

Chorus 

Sing ha! ha! ha! for Manitoba! 

Sing he! he! he! for Mirimichi! 

Sing hi! hi! hi! for Geographi! 

And that’s the lesson for you and me. 

There was a man in New Mexico, 

He lost his grandmother out in the snow; 

But his heart was light, and his ways were free, 

So he bought him another in Santa Fe. 

Chorus 

Sing ho! ho! ho! for New Mexico! 

Sing he! he! he! for Santa Fe! 

Sing hi! hi! hi! for Geographi! 

And that’s the lesson for you and me. 

There was a man in Austra-li-a, 

He sat and wept on the new-mown hay; 

He jumped on the tail of a kangaroo, 

And rode till he came to Kalamazoo. 

Chorus 

Sing hey! hey! hey! for Austra-li-a/ 

Sing hoo! hoo! hoo! for Kalamazoo! 

Sing hi! hi! hi! for Geographi! 

And that’s the lesson for me and you. 


Laura Elizabeth Richards 


217 


There was a man in Jiggerajum, 

He went to sea in a kettle-drum; 

He sailed away to the Salisbury Shore, 

And I never set eyes on that man any more. 

Chorus 

Sing hum! hum! hum! for Jiggerajum! 

Sing haw! haw! haw! for the Salisbury Shore! 
Sing hi! hi! hi! for Geographi! 

And that’s the lesson the whole world o’er. 


JUMBO JEE 

There were some kings, in number three, 
Who built the tower of Jumbo Jee. 

They built it up to a monstrous height, 

At eleven o’clock on a Thursday night. 

They built .it up for forty miles, 

With mutual bows and pleasing smiles; 

And then they sat on the edge to rest, 

And partook of lunch with a cheerful zest. 

And first they ate of the porkly pie, 

And wondered why they had built so high; 
And next they drank of the ginger wine, 
Which gave their noses a regal shine. 

They drank to the health of Jumbo Jee, 

Until they could neither hear nor see, 

They drank to the health of Jumbo Land, 
Until they could neither walk nor stand. 

They drank to the health of Jumbo Tower 
Until they really could drink no more; 

And then they sank in a blissful swoon, 

And flung their crown at the rising moon. 


218 


The Children's Poets 


Alice’s supper 

Far down in the meadow the wheat grows green, 

And the reapers are whetting their sickles so keen; 
And this is the song that I hear them sing, 

While cheery and loud their voices ring: 

“ ’Tis the finest wheat that ever did grow! 

And it is for Alice’s supper, ho! ho!” 

Far down in the valley the old mill stands, 

And the miller is rubbing his dusty white hands; 

And these are the words of the miller’s lay, 

As he watches the millstones a-grinding away: 

“ ’Tis the finest flour that money can buy, 

And it is for Alice’s supper, hi! hi!” 

Downstairs in the kitchen the fire doth glow, 

And Maggie is kneading the soft white dough, 

And this is the song that she’s singing today, 

While merry and busy she’s working away: 

“ ’Tis the finest dough, by near or by far, 

And it is for Alice’s supper, ha! ha!” 

And now to the nursery comes Nannie at last, 

And what in her hand is she bringing so fast? 

’Tis a plate full of something all yellow and white, 
And she sings as she comes with her smile so bright: 
“ ’Tis the best bread-and-butter I ever did see! 

And it is for Alice’s supper, he! he!” 


JINGLE 

The sugar dog lay in the toe of the stocking, 

And rocking, 

As if in a cradle, he called to the drum 
To come. 

But the ball and the gray flannel pig were too cunning 
And running, 

With Noah’s Ark, filled the stocking quite up 
To the top. 


Laura Elizabeth Richards 


210 


The jumping-jack could not get into the stocking. 
How shocking! 

He had to climb up on the foot of the bed 
Instead. 

But the rag doll was wise, and while baby was sleeping, 
Came creeping, 

And nestling under the sweet baby arm, 

Lay warm. 


THE PICCOLO 

Piccolo’s a little pipe, 

Will you hear me play on it? 

Age may have me in his gripe, 

Still I toot away on it. 

Children, come and dance with me! 
Merry moments you shall see; 

Life’s a jinking jollity, 

All the childish way on it! 

Piccolo’s a little pipe; 

Will you learn, to play on it? 

Wait until your years are ripe, 

Then you’ll say your say on it. 

Youth may strive and youth may sigh, 
Manhood build both broad and high, 
Age and childhood, you and I, 

Still we’ll have our way on it! 


CHAPTER THIRTEEN 


Lucy Larcom 

Among the children’s poets are a few who, by native en¬ 
dowment, by the divination of genius, together with a for¬ 
tunate combination of inspiration and circumstance, have 
been able to penetrate into the innermost recesses of the 
child’s heart, there to sing songs whose echoes never cease 
to reverberate. These are the heaven-sent, the apostles, the 
Blakes, the Christina Rossettis, the Stevensons. There are 
others, a somewhat more numerous company, yet still a 
handful, whose poetic talents, whose consecration and serv¬ 
ices, moved by a large love and sympathy for children, 
have given them a shrine in the child’s temple of art. These 
are the earth-born, the disciples: tc5 this group belongs Lucy 
Larcom. 

Lucy Larcom (born 1824, died 1893) is accorded short 
shrift in the general history of American Literature. The 
author of Hannah Binding Shoes, An Idyll of Work, a few 
beautiful hymns; the friend of John Greenleaf Whittier: 
this is her rating. But as a writer for children, she may 
justly claim a more generous meed of praise. A New Eng- 
land Girlhood, one of the most sincere and inspiring auto¬ 
biographies ever written for girls, and Childhood Songs, a 
book of poetry for children, entitle her to high rank among 
writers for young folks. 

Miss Larcom collaborated with Whittier in Child-Life in 
Prose , and also in Child-Life in Poetry, one of the earliest 
and, to this day, one of the best anthologies of poetry for 
children. She was joint editor, with Gail Hamilton and 
John T. Trowbridge, of Our Young Folks, und was for many 
220 


221 


Lucy Larcom 

years a contributor to St. Nicholas and The Youth's Compan¬ 
ion. But it is upon Childhood Songs that Miss Larcom’s 
fame as a children’s poet rests. It is a little book of about 
fifty poems, somewhat marred by inane illustrations. This 
volume, published by Houghton Mifflin Company, together 
with A New England Girlhood and Daniel Dulany Addison’s 
Lucy Larcom: Life , Letters , and Diary , provide the stu¬ 
dent with sufficient knowledge of Miss Larcom’s life and 
personality. 

Certain poems in Childhood Songs illustrate the fact that 
not all poems about children are poems for children. The 
author herself realized this, for in the prefatory note to the 
volume she says: “In naming these little poems Childhood 
Songs , one especial thought was that not all of them were 
written from the child’s point of view, but as one may write 
who in mature life retains a warm sympathy with childhood, 
through a vivid memory of her own.” It is an uncommon 
power, this power to see things as children see them. It 
requires the closest adjustment of memory, imagination, love, 
insight, and good sense. It is of no avail to cry out, “Back¬ 
ward, turn backward, 0 Time, in your flight”; Time does not 
turn back, for all our pleadings. Do you remember the 
difficulty Alice had in getting into the garden? She was 
too large to go through the garden door; then after she had 
drunk the contents of the bottle and found herself small 
enotigh to go through, she discovered that she was too small 
to reach the key on the table. When you are small enough, 
you haven’t the key; when you have the key, you aren’t 
small enough. 

Lucy Larcom, like all good poets for children, has the key 
of understanding and maturity and artistry, yet is small 
enough to creep through the door back into childhood. She 


222 


The Children's Poets 


says, in the preface to A New England Girlhood: “I can 
see very distinctly the child that I was, and I know how the 
world looked to her, far off as she is now. She seems to me 
like my little sister, at play in a garden where I can at any 
time return and find her.” It is true that occasionally, as 
she says, she writes poems about children, such poems as 
Moonshine , for example, or A little Cavalier, or A Face in 
the Tongs; but most of her poems are veritable children’s 
songs. 

Childhood Songs is dedicated to “Prince Hal and Little 
Queen Maude.” Miss Larcom, like other children’s poets, 
needed the presence of children to carry her back to her own 
childhood and to furnish the inspiration and theme of her 
songs. Frank Dempster Sherman dedicates Little-Folk 
Lyrics to a younger Dempster; Miss Rossetti, in her poems, 
remembered the baby who suggested them; Lewis Carroll 
declares his indebtedness Vo. Alice Liddell; Mrs. Richards 
tells us that her songs were composed as she sang to her chil¬ 
dren. We employ no figure of speech when we say that chil¬ 
dren renew our youth: that is precisely what they do. Ob¬ 
serving them, we call back, if but dimly and imperfectly, our 
youthful selves. When we see them at play, we travel back 
along the path of years to our own childhood and in memory 
we, too, are at play. At times, we scrutinize our youthful 
selves almost as if they were distinct individuals; at the same 
time, we feel a mysterious love and sympathy for them, an 
understanding of the little fellows, a longing to pat them on 
the head and draw them close to us, a feeling of strangely 
mingled affection and amusement. Out of some such 
feeling as this are children’s poems bom. 

But there is little suggestion of this mood in Childhood 
Songs. Most of the poems are concrete and specific, free 


Lucy Larcom 


223 


from mysticism, from introspection. What could be a more 
direct poetic exposition of childish thought than, for example, 
The Rivulet? 

Miss Larcom finds pleasure in nature, in its flowers and 
birds, in all its tender, quiet creations. Reared in a little 
country town, she early formed a tenacious attachment for 
wild flowers and for woods and fields. She says, “Flowers 
had begun to bring me messages from their own world when 
I was a very small child, and they never withdrew their com¬ 
panionship from my thoughts.” This love of Nature was 
strengthened by her childhood reading. The verses of 
Wordsworth, Watts, Coleridge, Bryant, and Whittier, were 
her favorites. But it was not the passion and storm, the 
grandeur and magnificence of Nature that appealed to her; 
it was rather Nature’s calmness and serenity, the quiet 
beauty and pastoral charm, that pleased her best. And in 
this, also, she resembles* other children’s poets. They 
seldom sing of the vastness and terror of Nature. We do 
not read such lines as “Roll on, thou- dark and deep blue 
ocean, roll!” in poetry written for children. We do not 
catch a glimpse of the “Kingly spirit throned among the 
hills” in any verse addressed to them. Doubtless there is a 
reason for t‘his; doubtless children are most likely to discern 
beauty in that which is merely pretty and pleasing. But I 
am convinced that occasionally they should have their imag¬ 
ination aroused by the wild and picturesque and awful. 
Life is not all purling brooks and flowers; there are floods 
and mountains and great, dark forests. Are we to hear 
nothing of these? In Childhood Songs we never hear of 
them. We may, however, expect to hear a sincere, natural 
love for the milder, blander aspects of Nature, of “every¬ 
thing that pretty bin.” 


224 


The Children's Poets 


As a specimen of Miss Larcom’s Nature verse, read the 
familiar Red-Top and Timothy. The artistic and consistent 
elaboration of a pretty fancy and the appropriately rapid 
and delicate rhythm make the poem notable. 


RED-TOP AND TIMOTHY 

Red-Top and Timothy 
Come here in the spring; 

Light spears out of emerald sheaths 
Everywhere they swing. 

Harmless little soldiers, 

On the field they play, 

Nodding plumes and crossing blades 
All the livelong day. 

Timothy and Red-Top 
Bring their music-band; 

Some with scarlet epaulettes 
Strutting stiff and grand; 

Some in sky-blue jackets; 

Some in vests of pink; 

Red and white their leader’s coat, 
Restless Bob-o’-link! 

Red-Top’s airy feathers 1 
Tremble to his notes, 

In themselves an orchestra; 

Then a thousand throats 

Set the winds a-laughing, 

While the saucy thing 

Anywhere on spike or spear, 

Sways himself to sing. 

Red-Top and Timothy 
Have a mortal foe; 

There’s a giant with a scythe 
Comes and lays them low; 

Shuts them in barn-prisons, 


225 


Lucy Larcom 

Spares not e’en Sweet Clover; 

Bob-o’*link leads off his band, 

Now the campaign’s over. 

There is a note of seriousness in many of Miss Larcom’s 
verses. Prince Hal and Little Queen Maude are continually 
being admonished by their New England foster-mother to 
remember that “life is real, life is earnest.” It is not that 
Miss Larcom, like Blake, feels the contrast between the in¬ 
nocence and happiness of childhood and the sin and sad¬ 
ness of maturity; it is not that she, like Miss Rossetti, is a 
devotee of “Our Ladies of Sorrow.” It is that her tastes 
are deeply religious. “Almost the first decided taste in my 
life,” she writes, “was the love of hymns.” Before she was 
five years old, she could repeat more than a hundred 
hymns by heart—“by heart” is the exact phrase in this case. 
She tells how, as a little child, she tried to assuage her 
widowed mother’s grief by singing her favorite hymns. 

Her religious bent is shown in her working days at the 
Lowell mills, in her experience as a teacher, in her letters, 
and in her published writings. Naturally, it reveals itself 
in her poems for children, not obtrusively, not too didacti¬ 
cally, not in a solemn Puritanical vein. It reveals itself 
rather in a certain serious note, in a feeling that, while 
child life should be happy and frolicsome, it should also 
upon occasion be sober and reflective; that, while the child 
should enjoy the pleasure and play of the moment, he should 
not be utterly regardless of duty and service. Several of 
the poems in Childhood Songs might serve to illustrate this 
serious spirit. I have chosen a familiar one. As is Miss 
Larcom’s custom, the moral is based on a natural phe¬ 
nomenon; the scene or situation is first made attractive and 
interesting, and then the lesson is introduced. The poem, 


226 


The Children’s Poets 


it will be noticed, does not present merely a lesson of polite¬ 
ness or good manners, in the Ann and Jane Taylor fashion; 
it touches upon a deep spiritual truth. 


IF I WERE A SUNBEAM 

“If I were a sunbeam, 

I know what I’d do: 

I would seek white lilies 
Rainy woodlands through. 

I would steal among them, 
Softest light I’d shed, 

Until every lily 

Raised its drooping head. 

“If I were a sunbeam, 

I know where I’d go: 

Into lowliest hovels, 

Dark with want and woe; 

Till sad hearts looked upward, 
I would shine and shine; 

Then they’d think of heaven, 
Their sweet home and mine.” 


Art thou not a sunbeam, 

Child, whose life is glad 
With an inner radiance 
Sunshine never had? 

0, as God hath blessed thee, 

Scatter rays divine! 

For there is no sunbeam 
But must die or shine. 

Even when Miss Larcom touches upon a theme like kind¬ 
ness to animals, she does not allow herself to drift into mawk¬ 
ishness or sentimentality. How delicately and deftly she 
can treat such a theme may be seen by an examination of The 


Lucy Larcom 


227 


Brown Thrush , which of all her poems is perhaps the one 
that is most popular among children. 

THE BROWN THRUSH 

There’s a merry brown thrush sitting up in the tree. 

“He’s singing to me! He’s singing to me!” 

And what does he say, little girl, little boy? 

“0, the world’s running over with joy! 

Don’t you hear? Don’t you see? 

Hush! Look! In my tree 
I’m as happy as happy can be!” 

And the brown thrush keeps singing, “A nest do you see, 

And five eggs, hid by me in the juniper tree? 

Don’t meddle! don’t touch! little girl, little boy, 

Or the world will lose some of its joy! 

Now I’m glad! now I’m free! 

And I always will be, 

If you never bring sorrow to me.” 

So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, 

To you and to me, to you and to me; 

And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy, 

“0, the world’s running over with joy! 

But long it won’t be, 

Don’t you know? don’t you see? 

Unless we are as good as can be!” 

But although Miss Larcom knows how to be serious with¬ 
out being solemn, her poems are not all serious. Hal and 
Maude are fond of play and have their fun, good store of 
it. They make whistles, they pick berries, they swing on 
the branches of the birch tree. All the poems in Childhood 
Songs show that the author would have children indulge 
to the full their normal instinct for games and sports. One 
of the most interesting poems in this group is the familiar 
Swinging on a Birch Tree . 


228 


The Children's Poets 


All Lucy Larcom’s poems impress the reader with a sense 
of her love for children. In one of her letters, she says: 
“I think I have the mother-feeling—ideally at least; a woman 
is not a woman quite, who lacks it, be she married or single. 
The children—God bless them—belong to the mother-heart 
that beats in all true women. They seem even dearer, some¬ 
times, because I have none of my own to love and be loved by, 
for there is a great emptiness that only child-love can fill.” A 
passage in her diary expresses a similar idea: “Homes where 
little children are, are always beautiful to me, for the 
children’s sake, if for nothing else. Cherub-like or impish, 
the little folks fascinate me always. If I were a mother, I 
am afraid I should never want my baby to grow up.” 

The maternal instinct in Miss Larcom finds expression 
in almost all her poems of childhood. It is responsible for 
the following beautiful lullaby, full of soft, delicate sounds 
and a rhythmic movement suggestive of the swinging of the 
tree-cradle. 


IN THE TREE-TOP 

“Rock-a-by, baby, up in the tree-top!” 

Mother his blanket is spinning; 

And a light little rustle that never will stop, 
Breezes and boughs' are beginning. 
Rock-a-by, baby, swinging so high! 

Rock-a-by! 


“When the wind blows, then the cradle will rock.” 

Hush! now it stirs in the bushes; 

Now with a whisper, a flutter of talk, 

Baby and hammock it pushes. 

Rock-a-by, baby! shut, pretty eye! 

Rock-a-by! 


229 


Lucy Larcom 

“Rock with the boughs, rock-a-by, baby dear!” 

Leaf-tongues are singing and saying; 

Mother she listens and sister is near, 

Under the tree softly playing. 

Rocrk-a-by baby! mother’s close by! 

Rock-a-by! 

Weave him a beautiful dream, little breeze! 

Little leaves, nestle around him! 

He will remember the song of the trees, 

When age with silver has crowned him. 

Rock-a-by, baby! wake by and by! 

Rock-a-by! 

Lucy Larcom is not a supreme poet, not even a great poet 
—no admirer, however fervent, should make that claim. 
She is great neither in her poetic conceptions, nor in the art 
of verse-making. She has neither the great vision of a 
master-thinker nor the lyric voice of a master-singer. But 
she is sincere and honest with herself and her readers. She 
does not patronize children, does not pretend or condescend. 
She does not choose her words according to the theory that a 
short word is better than a long one; the theory that a child 
must necessarily comprehend all that he may apprehend. 
Her philosophy of poetry may be given in her own words: 
“Reason and observation, as well as my own experience, 
assure me that it is great poetry—even the greatest—which 
the youngest crave and upon which they may be fed, because 
it is the simplest. Nature does not write down her sunsets, 
her starry skies, her mountains, and her oceans in some 
smaller style, to suit the comprehension of little children; 
they do not need any such dilution.” 

Not supreme, then, nor great, even; but important enough 
to be here listed among the children’s poets. By virtue of 
her love for children and her understanding of them, by vir- 


230 


The Children’s Poets 


tue of her power to summon back her own childhood and cast 
over it the sweet wizardry of poetic art, by virtue of her 
goodness and sincerity and her even balance of joyousness 
and seriousness, by virtue of her talents as a versifier—Lucy 
Larcom should be acclaimed as one of the blessed company 
of children’s poets, who go singing down the ages followed 
and surrounded by successive generations of happy little 
children. 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN 


Celia Thaxter 

For our purpose, in a study of children’s poets, the events 
of Celia (Laighton) Thaxter’s life (1835-1894) have but 
slight importance, compared with the environment in which 
her childhood was spent. “We are a part of all that we 
have met,” and particularly of all that we have met in child¬ 
hood. If we could trace almost any quality we possess, any 
trait or tendency, prejudice or bias, back along the half- 
obliterated, winding path that we traveled from childhood 
to maturity, doubtless we should find the source and origin 
of it in some childhood experience—often an experience 
that may have seemed insignificant to our parents or even to 
ourselves, but which is now seen to be the well-spring of 
much that is characteristic and fundamental in us. Out of 
this emotion and that situation, this love and that hate, this 
boy and that dog, a day of fishing and an old pocket-knife, a 
schoolhouse and a song and a willow whistle and the odor 
of apples, a game and a stone-bruise, out of all this, snatched 
up, it would seem, at random, Fate weaves our disposition 
and our character; and there is no science that will enable us 
to determine whether any scene or person or incident of 
childhood will strike our lives only to glance off into obliv¬ 
ion, or will make on us an indelible impression for good or 
for evil—no science that can 

Look into the seeds of Time 
And say which grains will grow, and which will not. 

But if you would know why the man is this sort of man and 
not the other sort, ask not his old-time friends or his early 

231 


232 


The Children's Poets 


teachers or even his parents: ask his childhood memories. If 
they will, they can reveal the secret. 

Though their splendor may have ceased to be, 

Each played her sovereign part in making me. 

When we search into Celia Laighton’s girlhood for an ex¬ 
planation of what was individual and unusual in Celia 
Thaxter’s womanhood, the significant detail, the fact that 
looms up largest, is that she spent her childhood on a light¬ 
house island off the coast of New Hampshire. Of course, 
we can trace the influence of this early environment in the 
subject matter of her verse and prose; but that would be 
expected: there is more in it than that. The strong, sweet 
serenity, the suggestion of the huge and the vast in almost 
everything she wrote, the sweep of her imagination, her 
deep, thoughtful sentiment—most of this is the product of 
her early environment. Mark Twain was not more deeply 
influenced by the Mississippi River than Celia Thaxter by 
the ocean. As she says in one of her delightful letters to 
James T. Fields: “I believe, I am afraid , I never can put my 
heart into anything that doesn’t belong to the sea.” 

Let us examine first, then, her sea poems. Of the seventy 
poems in Mrs. Thaxter’s poems for children ( Stories and 
Poems for Children , Houghton Mifflin Company), at least 
a dozen have as their theme and inspiration the sea—the sea 
as viewed from White Island or Appledore. Mrs. Thaxter 
feels the greatness of the sea, its might and mystery and 
majesty, as I have said. But in her children’s poems you 
get no more than a slight hint of that aspect of the sea, 
which is scarcely a theme for young children, as Mrs. 


Celia Thaocter 


233 


Thaxter—mother, aunt, and grandmother— knew right well. 
She chose a phase of the sea which is not only poetic and 
original and dear to her heart but also attractive to 
children: the birds of the sea. 

So far as I know, no poet has sung of as many sea-birds 
as Mrs. Thaxter, perhaps because none knew them so well 
and loved them so fondly. In her collection—her aviary— 
are the sandpiper, the burgomaster gull, the kittiwake, the 
shag, the great blue heron, and the albatross—birds which 
little Celia Laighton must often have observed around the 
inlets of the Isles of Shoals. The poems paint graphic 
pictures of the birds, against a background of restless sea 
and gloomy sky, and all are suffused with the poet’s 
reverent love for the creatures of the air and ocean. Mrs. 
Thaxter loves the smaller birds because of their weakness, 
their fragility, as contrasted with the giant violence of the 
ocean; she loves the stronger birds because of their 
strength; she loves them all because their flight is over the 
waters of the sea, because in them are suggestions of the 
reek of the brine and the magic and might of the great sea. 

The Sandpiper , for all it is so familiar, must be quoted, 
to illustrate one kind of Mrs. Thaxter’s verse on this subject. 
What a wonderfully vivid picture it is! The sandpiper, 
so trustful and confiding, so tiny and weak a creature to be 
exposed to the fury of a night of storm—I do not know where 
to find in English or American poetry such another picture. 
And not even in Robert Burns is there a truer feeling of 
comradeship with the animal creation than Mrs. Thaxter 
expresses here. Withal, it is done briefly, with artistic 
restraint and sincerity. It is one of the children’s poems 
that are worthy of an honored place in any anthology. 


234 


The Children's Poets 


THE SANDPIPER 

Across the narrow beach we flit, 

One little sandpiper and I; 

And fast we gather, bit by bit, 

The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. 

The wild waves reach their hands for it, 

Tne wild wind raves, the tide runs high, 

As up and down the beach we flit,— 

One little sandpiper and I. 

Above our heads the sullen clouds 
Scud black and swift across the sky; 

Like silent ghosts in misty shrouds 
Stand out the white lighthouses high. 

Almost as far as eye can reach 
I see the close-reefed vessels fly, 

As fast we flit along the beach,— 

One little sandpiper and I. 

I watch him as he .skims along 

Uttering his sweet and mournful cry; 

He starts not at my fitful song, 

Or flash of fluttering drapery. 

He has no thought of any wrong; 

He scans me with a fearless eye. 

Such friends are we, well tried and strong. 

The little sandpiper and I. 

Comrade, where wilt thou be tonight 

When the loosed storm breaks furiously? 

My driftwood fire will burn so bright! 

To what warm shelter canst thou fly? 

I do not fear for thee, though wroth 
The tempest rushes through the sky: 

For are we not God’s children both, 

Thou, little sandpiper, and I? 

Perhaps The Sandpiper does represent, as John Bur¬ 
roughs has said, the woman’s point of view, as Bryant’s 



Celia Thaxter 


235 


To a Waterfowl represents the man’s. But there is no 
trace of sentimentality in The Sandpiper , nor in anything 
else Celia Thaxter ever wrote. She is, above all, hale and 
sane. And to get a fair and adequate conception of her 
complete, rounded personality, you must read such a poem 
as The Albatross , with its broad canvas, its amplitude, its 
focusing of attention upon the strong and valiant spirit of 
the “mystic bird.” 

Though the sad, mysterious birds of wind and water were 
peculiarly dear to our poet, she was by no means insensible 
to the beauties and graces of their tamer sisters of forest 
and meadow. The dove, the yellow-bird, the bluebird, the 
hyla, the robin, the nightingale, the chickadee, all sing their 
pretty arias in her garden. Mrs. Thaxter loved all birds. 
She writes to Feroline Fox: “You know how I love them 
[the birds]; every other poem I have written has some 
bird for its subject.” Readers of Mrs. Thaxter’s letters 
{Letters of Celia Thaxter, Houghton Mifflin Company, 
1895), and especially of her letters to Bradford Torrey, 
will realize that her affection for birds was a veritable pas¬ 
sion, not a mere lukewarm liking. In this fervent love of 
birds Mrs. Thaxter surpasses all children’s poets. 

Of the natural companions of the birds, the flowers, Mrs. 
Thaxter is not so truly inspired to sing, though she was fond 
of flowers and appreciative of their beauty. In fact, she is 
interested, as a true artist always is, in all out-of-doors, in 
the seasons and the common aspect of nature. One of her 
nature poems most liked by children is Spring. The poem 
is full of pretty little touches, it sounds a clear, lyric note, 
and the imagery is attractive to children. 

Among Mrs. Thaxter’s verses are a number of well-drawn 
character sketches of little girls. These are unique in 


236 


The Children's Poets 


children’s poetry, the nearest approach to them being some of 
the poems of Jane and Ann Taylor. The Taylors, however, 
make their character sketches the media for preaching 
manners and -morals, whereas Mrs. Thaxter is usually 
content to paint the portraits of attractive little girls and 
let whatever moral there may be fend for itself. In her 
portrait gallery we find Nikolina, Marjorie, Piccola, Little 
Asunta, and, finest and loveliest of all, Gustava. 


LITTLE GUSTAVA 

Little Gustava sits in the sun, 

Safe in the porch, and the little drops run 
From the icicles under the eaves so fast, 

For the bright spring sun shines warm at last, 

And glad is 1 little Gustava. 

She wears a quaint little scarlet cap, 

And a little green bowl she holds in her lap, 

Filled with bread and milk to the brim, 

And a wreath of marigolds round the rim: 

“Ha, ha!” laughs little Gustava. 

Up comes her little gray, coaxing cat, 

With her little pink nose, and she mews, “What’s that?” 
Gustava feeds her,—she begs for more; 

And a little brown hen walks in at the door; 

“Good day!” cries little Gustava. 

She scatters crumbs for the little brown hen. 

There comes a rush and a flutter, and then 
Down fly her little white doves so sweet, 

With their snowy wings and their crimson feet: 
“Welcome!” cries little Gustava. 

So dainty and eager they pick up the crumbs; 

But who is this through the doorway comes? 

Little Scotch terrier, little dog Rags, 


Celia Thaocter 


237 


Looks in her face, and his funny tail wags: 

“Ha, ha!” laughs little Gustava. 

“You want some breakfast, too?” and down 
She sets her bowl on the brick floor brown; 

And little dog Rags drinks up her milk, 

While she strokes his shaggy locks, like silk: 

“Dear Rags!” says little Gustava. 

Waiting without stood sparrow and crow, 

Cooling their feet in the melting snow: 

“Won’t you come in, good folks?” she cried. 

But they were too bashful, and stayed outside, 

Though “Pray come in!” cried Gustava. 

So the last she threw them, and knelt on the mat 
With doves and biddy and dog and cat. 

And her mother came to the open house-door: 

“Dear little daughter, I bring you some more, 

My merry little Gustava!” 

Kitty and terrier, biddy and doves, 

All things harmless Gustava loves. 

The shy, kind creatures ’tis joy to feed, 

And oh, her breakfast is sweet indeed 
To happy little Gustava! 

Mrs. Thaxter’s love for children is revealed in all her 
pictures of child life. It is revealed yet more clearly, 
perhaps, in the half-dozen lullabies in her volume—a fa¬ 
vorite form of verse with most children’s poets. Rarely has 
the anxious and passionate tenderness of maternal love been 
more vividly and beautifully expressed than in her Cradle 
Song and A Lullaby. 

Mrs. Thaxter, being mother, aunt, and grandmother, must, 
of course, give her child readers bits of advice now and then. 
One would not begrudge her that luxury—she has deserved 
it. But even here her unfailing good sense is manifest: 


238 


The Children's Poets 


she does not emphasize the petty, inconsequential minor 
morals, nor does she sugar-coat her homiletic medicine; in 
fact, she prescribes tonics rather than medicine. She talks 
straight out, in “good set terms,” without cant and without 
subterfuge, with a compelling earnestness and honesty and 
in striking and forceful phrases, about the fundamental vir¬ 
tues. Of “divine and sacred songs”—there are not many of 
them in her collection—I prefer An Open Secret . 

Mrs. Thaxter is rarely humorous, and only now and then, 
as in Jack Frost , is she fanciful. But one must not expect 
everything: “Take the goods the gods provide thee.” If she 
laughs rarely, she smiles frequently, and her serenity and 
her profound and inherent faith in the goodness and harmony 
of life is ample compensation for whatever she may lack of 
fun. If she has little fancy, she has imagination; if she does 
not often detect the superficial analogies between things, 
she is always conscious of the essential kinship, one might 
even say identity, of all things and phases of life. 

It is not difficult to detect faults in Mrs. Thaxter’s poetry. 
Her language, though usually vigorous and suggestive, is 
rarely figurative; occasionally it is even commonplace. 
The reader is not often surprised by verbal felicities. Her 
verse, although even and regular in flow, is at times almost 
monotonous; her stanza structure is conventional. Yet 
despite these limitations, the student and lover of children’s 
poetry must give her high ranking as a poet of childhood. 
She has widened the scope of poetry for children by her bevy 
of little girls and her flock of sea-birds; she loves children, 
she understands them and meets them on their own level; 
she has a wide sympathy and sustained imagination; she is 
simple and unaffected. She writes to Fields: “The only 
merit of my small productions lies in their straightforward 


Celia Thaxter 


239 


simplicity.” Of course, that is not their only merit; but it 
is a merit that children, above all other mortals, appreciate, 
and it accounts, in part*for her popularity among children. 

Celia Thaxter, the poet, was a grandmother, let us not for¬ 
get that; and she has the true grandmother attitude toward 
children. She writes to Clara Rogers: “I don t think I 
ever realized what fun was until I became a grandmother.” 
And again, more seriously: “Oh, I never meant in my old 
age to become subject to the thrall of a love like this! It 
is almost dreadful—so absorbing, so stirring down to the 
deeps.” One of her most forceful poems is entitled Grand¬ 
mother to her Grandson , and throughout her poems for 
children, a sensitive reader feels this “grandmother” mood 
and “grandmother” love—enthusiasm restrained by good 
sense, ardent affection tempered by wisdom which is a 
new note in children’s poetry, the nearest resemblance being 
in the poems of Mrs. Richards. 

Sarah Orne Jewett, in the introduction to the volume of 
Mrs. Thaxter’s stories and poems, sums up the poet’s point of 
view: “I am sure that if Mrs. Thaxter had lived to com¬ 
plete the arrangement of this book of stories and verses for 
children, she would have dedicated it to her dear grand¬ 
children and to the little nieces so dear to her heart. I know 
that she would like to have me stand in her place and say 
that this book is made for them first of all, and I am suie 
that it will help those who cannot well remember her to 
know something of her beautiful generous kindness and 
delightful gayety, her gift of teaching young eyes to see 
the flowers and birds; to know her island of Appledore and 
its sea and sky.” 





BIBLIOGRAPHY 


(A) Anthologies of Children’s Poetry 

Anthologies of children’s poetry are so numerous that a student 
of poetry for children must take them into account. To assist 
readers in this matter I have brought together descriptive bibliog¬ 
raphies of twenty anthologies. Representative anthologies have 
been chosen so that the different aims of the editors might be in¬ 
dicated, and I have discussed none that did not appear to me to be 
fairly good. Volumes made specifically for school use have not 
been considered. 

The contents of the anthologies, the point of view of the editors, 
the elements of strength and weakness, the distinctive features, and 
the principles by which the poems have been selected and classi¬ 
fied, have been summarized in brief outlines. I have quoted, wher¬ 
ever possible, from the prefaces; but I have also, in every instance, 
stated my own opinion. The books are listed alphabetically ac¬ 
cording to the names of their respective editors. 


Chisholm, Louey. The Golden Staircase. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 
New York, n. d. 

This book has no preface; therefore the collector’s point of 
view must be ascertained from a survey of the book itself. The 
purpose seems to be to present a group of poems for each 
year. The Golden Staircase is, in fact, a series of graded poems. 
Miss Chisholm has gleaned her selections from the whole field of 
verse suitable for children and, while reprinting a number of the 
old favorites, has chosen many verses rarely found in modern col¬ 
lections. Most of the poetry is good literature, and all of it deals 
with themes of interest to children. The collector has inserted 
an unusually large number of splendid humorous verses. Ameri¬ 
can authors are not well represented. It is a large collection and 
one that should be in any good library of children’s poetry. 

The volume is divided into nine parts, advancing a step with 
each new part, as the child grows a year older. Within each part, 
the arrangement seems to have been made entirely on the principle 
of variety and constant change from one kind of verse to another. 

241 


242 


The Children's Poets 


Grahame, Kenneth. The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Young 
People. G. P. Putnam’s Sons, New York, 1916. 

Mr. Grahame’s purpose is: “To set up a wicket-gate giving at¬ 
tractive admission to that wide domain [‘the whole range of Eng¬ 
lish poetry’] with its woodland glades, its pasture and arable, its 
walls and scented gardens here and there, and so to its sunlit, and 
sometimes misty, mountain-tops.” He has excluded blank verse 
and drama, most of the classical poetry of the seventeenth and 
eighteenth centuries, dialect verse, poems on death, all the second- 
and third-rate verse for children, “which is merely verse and noth¬ 
ing more,” and poems about children. The collection consists 
almost entirely of lyric poetry, but the collector presents a variety 
of subjects, appealing to all classes and types of children and 
representing a rich diversity of interests. His taste is unerring: 
there is not a single poem in the volume that one would wish away. 
Many of the poems found, in other anthologies are included in 
this one, but there are a few in this that one rarely sees elsewhere. 

The poems are arranged in three sections: For the very smallest 
ones; For those a little older; For those still older. Within these 
divisions the poems are grouped according to subject matter, each 
group having a title, sometimes a trifle fanciful; but a child could 
easily find his way about in the book by following these sign¬ 
boards. 

Henley, William Ernest. Lyra Heroica: A Book of Verse for 
Boys. Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York, 1916. 

“My purpose has been to choose and sheave a certain number of 
those achievements in verse which, as expressing the isimpler 
sentiments and the more elemental emotions, might fitly be ad¬ 
dressed to such boys—and men, for that matter—as are privileged 
to use our noble English tongue. ... To set forth, as only art can, 
the beauty and the joy of living, the beauty and the blessedness of 
death, the glory of battle and adventure, the nobility of devotion— 
to a cause, an ideal, a passion even—the dignity of resistance, the 
sacred quality of patriotism, that is my ambition here. . . . 
Addressing myself to boys, I have not scrupled to edit my authors 
where editing seemed desirable, and I have broken up some of the 
longer pieces for convenience in reading.” This is a splendid 


Bibliography 243 

collection within its professed limits. It contains not a few poems 
generally inaccessible, and all the pieces included express hero¬ 
ism and martial ardor. Longfellow, Whittier, and Whitman are 
the only American authors who are represented. 

The arrangement of the selections is chronological, and extends 
from Shakespeare to Rudyard Kipling. There is a good index 
of the authors, and some pages of useful notes. 

Ingpen, Roger. One Thousand Poems for Children. Revised and 
Enlarged Edition. George W. Jacobs and Company, Philadelphia, 
1920. 

This is one of the most voluminous collections ever made, con¬ 
taining as it does, almost 549 pages of fine print. The first edi¬ 
tion was published in 1903. It is not a book for children, but an 
invaluable one for teachers and librarians, inasmuch as it con¬ 
tains many poems not easily found elsewhere. The editor be¬ 
lieves in poetry that is both “pleasant to read and profitable to 
remember.” He says: “The two objects which have primarily been 
kept in mind are the claim of poetry and the demand of the chil¬ 
dren; but since the collection is intended chiefly for the pleasure 
of our boys and girls, the demand of our children has been con¬ 
sidered first. . . . The volume embraces poems for children of 
all ages, from the very little tot to the average child of fifteen 
years.” This anthology is especially rich in the work of the 
earlier poets for children. A wide variety of themes and poetic 
styles is presented. Unfortunately the editor s taste is 1 not alto¬ 
gether trustworthy: he has admitted certain poems that are full 
of sentimentality and bathos, and many that are purely utilitarian 

and didactic. . 

The poems are arranged, in the supposed order of their diffi¬ 
culty, under the following titles: Part I: Rhymes for Little Ones 
(didactic verses). Cradle Songs, Nursery Rhymes, Fairy Land, 
Fables and Riddles; Part II: The Seasons, Fields and Woods, Home, 
Insects, Birds and Beasts, Humorous Verse, The Fatherland, 
Ballads, Girlhood, Miscellaneous, Hymns. 

Lucas, Edward Verrall. A Book of Verses for Children. Henry 
Holt and Company, New York, 1909. 

The preface, addressed to children, is as follows: “Unless you 


244 


The Children’s Poets 


are very keenly set upon reading to yourself, I think I should ad¬ 
vise you to ask some one to read these pieces aloud, not too many 
at a time. And I want you to understand that there is a kind of 
poetry that is far finer than anything here: poetry to which this 
book is, in the old-fashioned phrase, simply a stepping-stone. 
When you feel, as I hope some day you will feel, that these pages 
no longer satisfy, then you must turn to the better things.” From 
this statement we infer that the editor intended the book largely 
to please the younger children and to represent the lighter forms 
of verse; and this inference is borne out by an examination of the 
volume. Mr. Lucus has ranged far and wide to find these verses, 
and, within the limits he set for himself, he has made a varied and 
excellent anthology. It contains a great many poems that are 
graceful and pleasant and gay, as well as many that are solid 
and sensible. Moreover, the volume contains many poems that 
are not to be found in any other collection. 

The material is grouped under the following descriptive titles: 
Two Thoughts, The Open Air, The Year, Christmas, The Country 
Life, Blossoms from Herrick and Blake, Birds, Dogs and Horses, 
Compressed Natural History, Unnatural History, Poets at Play, 
Counsel, Old-Fashioned Girls, Marjorie Fleming, Poetess, Old- 
Fashioned Boys, Looking Forward, From “Hiawatha” Good Fel¬ 
lows, The Sea and the Island, A Bundle of Stories, Bedtime. The 
editor makes no attempt to arrange the poems in the order of their 
difficulty; in fact, the pieces are of about the same degree of diffi¬ 
culty throughout. He addresses some characteristic notes to chil¬ 
dren under the title of A Few Remarks. 


Lucas, Edward Verrall. Another Book of Verses for Children. 
The Macmillan Company, New York, 1919. 

In his preface, the editor says: “Of the present collection of 
verses, as of that which preceded it ten years ago, I would say 
that it consists not so much of poetry, as of poetry-for-children. 
It is, like that, merely a preparation for the real thing. Their 
fitness for being read aloud was always 1 present in my mind when 
choosing the contents.” It is a companion to A Book of Verses 
for Children , and almost as engaging. No one has more familiar¬ 
ity with the innermost recesses of a child’s heart than Mr. Lucas 
and few have his exquisite feeling for good poetry. 


Bibliography 245 

The volume contains a great many poems, presenting them under 
the following titles: The Four Seasons , Friends in the Village, 
Little Fowls of the Air, Ballads of Dumb Creatures, The Country 
Round, From the Stream to the Sea, Ballads of Sailor Men, When 
Great-Great-Grandmamma was Young, Easy Lessons in Grammar 
and Geography, The Genius of the Hearthrug (poems on the Cat), 
The Rhymes of the Lighthearted, A Budget of Stories, Hiawatha and 
Kwasind, Ballads of Battle, Children s Books, Good Night, The 
Lesson Beautiful, Poems in the Notes, A Farewell Bunch. 

McMurry, Lida Brown, and Cook, Agnes Spofford. Songs of 
the Tree-top and Meadow. Public School Publishing Company, 
Bloomington, Illinois, 1899. 

The following statement is found in the preface to this work: 
“No mere doggerel, no preaching, no morbid note of sadness or 
the retrospect of age may be allowed, but only such poems as the 
teacher has found, from actual trial with many children, to be 
of value in developing a love for poetry and in stimulating the im¬ 
pulse toward beautiful thought and unselfish action.” Songs of 
Tree-top and Meadow is a collection for the very first grades of 
school. The selections are arranged by seasons: For Autumn Days , 
For Winter Days, For Rainy Days, For Spring Days, For Summer 
Days. It contains a good deal of the doggerel and preaching 
which the editors, in the preface, condemn, but most of the verses 
are first-rate as poetry and first-rate as children’s poetry. Most of 
the poetry deals with Nature. The pedagogical intent is obvious. 

Olcott, Frances Jenkins. Story-Telling Poems. Houghton 
Mifflin Company, Boston, 1913. 

“Selected and arranged for story-telling and reading aloud and 
for the children’s own reading,” says the editor’s announcement. 
Miss Olcott suggests that the children should have the story of 
the poem told to them first, then have the poem read to them. “In 
this volume are brought together fables, legends, and tales of 
humor and feeling, of fairy-lore and magic, historical stories, par¬ 
ables, and sacred stories. ... The rhymes and poems are se¬ 
lected for their story-telling qualities, for their lively interest to 
children, for their humorous, imaginative, and ethical values, and, 
as far as possible, for their literary form.” In the last aspect, 


246 


The Children’s Poets 


however, the editor has failed, for some of the verses are poor 
stuff. The story in them is usually good, but as specimens of lit¬ 
erary art they are by no means good. Perhaps this failure was 
inevitable in a collection made for the specific purpose the editor 
had in mind. Certainly, in other respects the anthology is a very 
good one. It is best suited to the older children, though doubt¬ 
less the younger ones would enjoy hearing the stories told and 
having the poems read to them. Many of the selections have been 
condensed or expurgated. 

The index is a good one and the poems are well classified 
under the following titles: Deeds of Right and Wrong; Fairies, 
Magic, and Mystery; Jolly Rhymes and Poems; Sad Poems; His¬ 
torical Legends and Stories; Sacred Stories and Legends. 

Our Childrens Songs. Harper and Brothers, New York, 1877. 

This book is without a preface. The aim of the editor, whose 
name does not appear on the title page, seems to have been to pre¬ 
sent specimens of the best poetry for children of all ages. The 
verses range from the nonsensical to the pathetic and tragic; the 
editor evidently desired to present poetry covering every possible 
mood and on every possible theme within the interests of childhood. 
There is, perhaps, too great a preponderance of the lyric over the 
narrative. Many of the children’s classics are found, but much of 
the material is from the lesser lights of poetry. In the selection 
of these, however, the editor’s taste has been liberal and yet unerr¬ 
ing; practically every selection in the volume is real literature. 
The group of poems for smaller children and the group of sacred 
songs are especially noteworthy. All told, it is a rich and satis¬ 
factory anthology. 

Our Childrens Songs is divided into five parts: Songs for the 
Nursery, Songs for Childhood, Songs for Girlhood, Songs for 
Boyhood, and Our Children s Sacred Songs. 

Palgrave, Francis Turner. Children's Treasury of English Song. 
The Macmillan Company, New York, 1913. (First published in 
1875.) 

“This selection is planned for children between nine or ten, and 
fifteen or sixteen years of age. . . . Nothing has been here ad¬ 
mitted which does not reach a high rank of poetical merit. , . . 


Bibliography 247 

The editor’s wish has been to collect all songs, narratives, descrip¬ 
tions, or reflective pieces of a lyrical quality, fit to give pleasure,— 
high, pure, manly (and therefore lasting),—to children in the stage 
between early childhood and early youth. . . . The standard of 
‘merit in poetry’ has excluded a certain number of popular fa¬ 
vorites. But the standard of ‘suitability to childhood,’ as here 
understood, has excluded many more pieces: pictures of life as it 
seems to middle age—poems colored by sentimentalism or morbid 
melancholy, however attractive to readers no longer children—love 
as a personal passion or regret (not love as the groundwork of 
action)—artificial or highly allusive language—have, as a rule, 
been held unfit.” In these words, the famous editor of this splen¬ 
did anthology sets forth the principles upon which his selections 
were made. He wishes to show children the path to the “great 
and glorious world of English poetry.” The collection is un¬ 
usually rich in poems of an early day. But this is not to say that 
the best specimens of modern poetry have not been included. The 
editor’s discriminating taste has enabled him to produce a distinc¬ 
tive volume; but the poetry is too serious and dignified and literary 
to be popular with most children, and notwithstanding the editor’s 
purpose, he has included certain poems that are beyond the interests 
of childhood. 

The book is divided into two parts. Palgrave has a happy 
faculty for grouping poems by similarity or contrast, and the 
titles, though sometimes strained, # are usually apt and striking. 

Patmore, Coventry. The Children s Garland from the Best Poets. 
The Macmillan Company, New York, 1917. (First published in 
1861.) 

“The test applied in the work of selection has been that of 
having actually pleased intelligent children; and my object has 
been to make a book which shall be to them no more nor less than 
a book of equally good poetry is to intelligent grown per¬ 
sons. . . . Children will not like this volume the less because, 
though containing little or nothing which will not at once please 
and amuse them, it also contains much, the full excellence of which 
they may not as yet be able to understand.” This, the editor’s 
guiding principle, led him to exclude nearly all verse written ex¬ 
pressly for children, and most of the poetry written about children 
for grown people. A few poems were judiciously altered and 


248 


The Children's Poets 


abridged. There is nothing in the book but first-rate literature, 
drawn from the whole range of lyrical and narrative poetry, and 
selected with good taste. Many of the great poets are represented 
(Wordsworth is perhaps mis-represented: at any rate, the editor 
made his selections from this poet with singular infelicity) and 
there is a liberal proportion of old ballads and songs. Only a 
few of the poems are by American authors. The selections are 
arranged by no principle, either in the order of their difficulty 
or by theme or mood. In this respect the collection is unsatis¬ 
factory. Mr. Patmore shows his understanding of older children 
by giving them a number of poems which are weird, imaginative, 
and tragic. As the first edition of this famous anthology appeared 
in 1861, poetry of a later date is not to be found therein. 

Repplier, Agnes. A Book of Famous Verse. Houghton Mifflin 
Company, Boston, 1892. 

“In selecting these few poems I have had no other motive than 
to give pleasure to the children who may read them; and I have 
tried to study their taste, and feelings, and desires. . . . The en¬ 
joyment which children receive from poetry is far-reaching and 
of many kinds. Martial strains which fire the blood, fairy music 
ringing in the ears, half-told tales which set the young heart 
dreaming, brave deeds, unhappy fates, somber ballads, keen joyous 
lyrics, and small jeweled verses where every word shines like a 
polished gem,—all these good things the children know and love. 
It is useless to offer them mere rhymes and jingles; it is ungen¬ 
erous to stint their young, vigorous imaginations with obvious 
prattle, fitted dexterously to their understandings. In the matter 
of poetry, a child’s imagination outstrips his understanding; his 
emotions carry him far beyond the narrow reach of his intelli¬ 
gence.” . . . Preface. 

This is a splendid collection of classic poetry; not a piece has 
been included which does not rank high in literary merit. Differ¬ 
ent themes and moods are represented in great variety, the only 
decided weakness being the omission of all light and humorous 
verse. The collector has chosen very little for the youngest read¬ 
ers, and she has occasionally erred in including poems the pre¬ 
dominant emotions of which are not childish. 

The selections are not arranged by any principle or rule, but 
are scattered hit-or-miss throughout the volume. 


Bibliography 


249 


Stevenson, Burton Egbert. The Home Book of Verse for Young 
Folks. Henry Holt and Company, New York, 1915. 

One of the largest collections of children’s verse yet published— 
a veritable storehouse of poetic riches. There is no preface; so far 
as a critic can determine, Mr. Stevenson intended the volume to be 
representative of all the different kinds of children’s verse which 
may be considered as literature. He takes his poetry from any and 
every source: from folk-poetry, from the classics that appeal to 
children, from poetry written for children, from the old and the 
modern, from English and American stores alike. Discriminat¬ 
ing taste and sympathy, an understanding of child nature, and a 
scholarly knowledge of children’s poetry have contributed to the 
excellence of this splendid collection. 

The poems are grouped under somewhat fanciful titles, as fol¬ 
lows: In the Nursery, The Duty of Children, Rhymes of Child¬ 
hood , Just Nonsense, Fairyland, The Glad Evangel, This Wonderful 
World, Stories in Rhyme, My Country, The Happy Warrior, Life 
Lessons, A Garland of Gold. The poems are not arranged in the 
order of their difficulty but rather according to the awakening in¬ 
terest of young readers. 

Tappan, Eva March. Poems and Rhymes. Houghton Mifflin 
Company, Boston, 1907. 

This is volume nine of the ten-volume set of books called The 
Children s Hour. 

There is not much that is new in this anthology, but the editor 
has shown good judgment in her selections. Most of the poetry 
is modern, and a great deal of it American. Children of every age 
and temperament will find something of interest and value in the 
book. The contents and arrangement of the volume are indicated 
by the following divisions: Poems about Children, Story-telling 
Poems, Nonsense Verse, Songs, Christmas Poems, Poems of Nature, 
Poems of our Country, Poems to think about. Other Poems. 


Teasdale, Sara. Rainbow Gold* The Macmillan Company, 
New York, 1922. 

A charming collection, a poet’s anthology. Illustrated by Dugald 


250 


The Children's Poets 


Walker. Miss Teasdale chose the poems “that would have pleased 
the child I used to be and the boy who was my playmate. . . . The 
poems that they loved best had highly accented rhythms, and took 
them into ‘a land of clear colors and stories.’ ” While most of the 
poems are by the older poets, there are more by living writers 
than in any other anthology. 

Thacher, Lucy. The Listening Child. The Macmillan Company, 
New York, 1917. 

The first edition of this popular anthology appeared in 1899. 
The 1917 edition is a very attractive volume. The editor has en¬ 
deavored, apparently, to present poems that stir the imagination of 
children. She believes that great poems can be appreciated by 
children as well as by their elders; she therefore presents very few 
that were written especially for children. “There are poems 
here that may puzzle the largest of you,” she says, “but there are 
none which are beyond the hearing of the smallest.” It would 
seem that Miss Thacher intends the poems to be read aloud to 
children. Notwithstanding her statement, the collection contains 
very few poems for little tots. The chief poets of England and 
America are represented and a fitting number of poems selected 
from each one. Both lyrics and narrative poems are found, well 
mingled. There are, perhaps, not enough humorous pieces. The 
editor has exhibited a rare taste in poetry and a true understand¬ 
ing of child nature in the preparation of this charming book. 

It is one of the few collections of children’s verse in which the 
order of arrangement represents the chronological periods of liter¬ 
ary history. 

Whittier, John Greenleaf. Child Life. Houghton Mifflin 
Company, Boston, 1871. 

One of the earliest collections of verse for children, and to this 
day one of the finest. To this collection all later editors of chil¬ 
dren’s poetry are, consciously or unconsciously, indebted. It is a 
poet’s collection. When Whittier made this anthology, he ex¬ 
pressed the hope that his readers would find it “combining 
simplicity with a certain degree of literary excellence, without on 
the one hand descending to silliness, or, on the other, rising above 
the average comprehension of children.” He acknowledges the 


Bibliography 251 

assistance given him by Lucy Larcom. His own religious nature is 
apparent in the preface, but he wisely refrained from including too 
many religious or moral verses. He ranged widely and wisely over 
English and American poetry, and has gathered up not a few trans¬ 
lations from the Italian, German, and Scandinavian poetry of child¬ 
hood. As might have been expected, the poems are chosen with an 
unerring instinct for the beautiful, in theme and in form, al¬ 
though, of course, a collection made fifty years ago must inevitably 
lack many of the great modern poems for children. 

Wiggin, Kate Douglas, and Smith, Nora Archibald. Golden 
Numbers: A Book of Verse for Youth. Doubleday, Page and 
Company, New York, 1915. 

This anthology was first published in 1902. The poems it con¬ 
tains have been selected with exquisite taste from many fields, but 
especially from the more modern and the more classic poets. 
The material in this volume is both useful and beautiful. Its 
contents are subdivided as follows: A Chanted Cahndar (the 
months and seasons), The World Beautiful, Green Things Growing , 
On the Wing (birds and insects), The Inglenook (home and family 
life), Fairy Songs and Songs of Fancy , Sports and Pastimes, A 
Garden of girls, The World of Waters, For Home and Country 9 
New World and Old Glory (poems of American history and pa¬ 
triotism,), In Merry Mood, Story Poems, Romance and Reality, 
When Banners are Waving (war poems), Tales of Olden Time 
(old ballads), Life Lessons, The Glad Evangel (poems of Christmas). 

-. The Posy Ring. Doubleday, Page and Company, New 

York, 1917. 

This anthology was first published in 1903. It is a companion 
volume to Golden Numbers, intended for younger children. Char¬ 
acterized by the same discriminating taste displayed by the editors 
in their former work, it is even more catholic in its scope. 

The poems are listed under the following happily-chosen titles: 
A Years Windfall (the months and seasons), The Child's World 
(inanimate nature), Hiawatha s Chickens (the birds), The Flower 
Folk, Hiawatha's Brothers (animals), Other Little Children, Play 
Time, Story Time, Bed Time , For Sundays Child, Bells of Christ¬ 
mas. 



252 


The Children s Poets 


-. Pinafore Palace. The McClure Company, New York, 

1907. 

The third book of the Wiggin-Smith series. This one is for the 
wee folk. It consists of two parts: The Royal Baby (Mother 
Goose jingles), and Little Prince and Princess (poems by both un¬ 
known and well-known authors for children). This is not so orig¬ 
inal a collection as the other two volumes by these talented edi¬ 
tors, but it deserves a place in the library of the tiny child. 



(B) Some Other Children’s Poets 


The poets whose works are listed in the following notes are 
perhaps the most important, aside from those already treated in 
these pages, of all those who have tried their hand at verse-making 
for children. Their contributions may not appear striking, they 
may not represent so much that is new in style and substance as 
the great masters of their craft, but they are genuine poets of 
childhood none the less and deserve a small corner in the chil¬ 
dren’s starry field. In the descriptive notes I have endeavored to 
indicate their special qualities. No book that is out of print, so 
far as I know, is listed, and the poets are arranged alphabetically 
for convenience of reference. 


Brown, Abbie Farwell. A Pocketful of Posies . Houghton Mifflin 
Company, Boston, 1902. 

Many of the poems in this volume were reprinted from the 
Youth’s Companion, St. Nicholas, and other juvenile magazines. 
Tales, sketches, ideas, fancies, in straightforward verse. Miss 
Brown delights in quaint fancies; she is the only children’s poet 
who uses puns effectively. Plenty of first-rate fun in these poems, 
though some of it is too fine-spun for the robust taste of most chil¬ 
dren. An occasional serious poem, for the most part sincere and 
unaffected and wholesome. Style natural. The poet is faithful to 
the nature of childhood. 


Burgess, Gelett. Goops, and How to be Them. Frederick A. 
Stokes Company, New York, 1900. 

A large number of amusing illustrations. One of the most 
successful attempts to write children’s verse combining fun and 
lessons on manners and morals. The Goops are ridiculous little 
creatures, who always do the wrong thing, and who, by the pun¬ 
ishment meted out to them and the ridicule heaped upon them, 
point morals for the young readers and listeners. Thoroughly 
amusing, in a wholesome fashion. 

Mr. Burgess has made several other agreeable books for children, 
but the volume mentioned above is perhaps the best of the lot. 

253 


254 


The Children's Poets 


Cary, Alice and Phoebe. Poems for Children. (In Poetical 
Works.) Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1882. 

Incidents and scenes of home and country life. The authors pre¬ 
sent many lessons in a frank, straightforward manner, with com¬ 
pelling earnestness and in forceful, graceful phrasing. Many of 
the poems are humorous. In theme, style, and treatment they 
are within the child’s range of interests and feelings. Although the 
Cary sisters’ poetry lacks the pure singing quality which is char¬ 
acteristic of the best poetry for children, it is notable for its good 
sense, solidity of thought, and power of phrasing. 

Cawein, Madison. The Giant and the Star. Small, Maynard and 
Company, Boston, 1909. 

Attractive verses, though they rank far below Cawein’s verse for 
adults. Written, for the most part, from the standpoint of a boy 
of eight to twelve years of age: his thoughts, fancies, fears, wishes, 
and scenes and incidents of his daily life. A few of the poems are 
messages of a father to his son; and the poet-father figures in 
nearly all the pieces. True to boy nature. The poet frequently 
falls into a sort of juvenile dialect in the James Whitcomb Riley 
fashion; but the colloquialisms are strangely mingled with words 
lying outside the average child’s vocabulary. Nevertheless a few 
of the poems rank high as children’s verse, and altogether they give 
a capital picture of normal childhood. 


Dodge, Mary Mapes. Rhymes and Jingles. Charles Scribner’s 
Sons, New York, 1916. 

The poet covers almost the whole range of children’s interests: 
play, toys, work, animals, nature, companions, home life. Good 
variety also in mood and tone and poetic forms. Excellent fun, 
ranging from pure nonsense to quaint fancy. Little didactic in¬ 
tent, and that little sanely and sensibly expressed. The style is 
spirited and natural. Mrs. Dodge has succeeded in writing for 
children without writing down to them. Nearly every bit of verse 
in this volume is true to the facts—or at least the fancies—of 
childhood. In every respect a charming volume. 


Bibliography 


2 55 


-. When Life Is Young. The Century Company, New 

York, 1913. 

A collection of poems for children somewhat older than 
those who would enjoy Rhymes and Jingles. Characterized by the 
steady sense and insight into child-life that made the author for so 
many years the successful editor of St. Nicholas. 

Earls, Michael. Ballads of Childhood. Benziger Brothers, 
New York, 1914. 

Poems on nature, children, indoor fancies. In theme, mood, and 
technique Father Earls’ Ballads of Childhood reminds one of Stev¬ 
enson’s immortal collection. Nearly all the poems are more or less 
serious, and a few deal with religious themes. There is a glint of 
humor in them, however, and a delightfully child-like atmosphere. 
Style rich and suggestive. Splendid lyrical quality. A delightful 
volume, pleasing alike to children and to lovers of children. 

Fenollosa, Mary. Blossoms from a Japanese Garden. Frederick 
A. Stokes Company, New York, 1913. 

An unusual contribution to the library of children’s poetry. 
Beautifully illustrated in color by Japanese artists. The stories 
and scenes are all concerned with the life of Japanese children, 
their thoughts and feelings and outlook on their world. Yet in 
spite of this, most of the poems are within the range of interests of 
American children. The poems are fanciful and quaint, at times 
humorous; and always artistic in conception and execution. The 
diction is pure and dignified, yet not too far removed from the 
vocabulary of children. This volume of child-verse deserves to 
be more widely known. 


Lamb, Charles and Mary. Poetry for Children. Vol. VIII of 
The Works of Charles Lamb , in 12 volumes. J. M. Dent and 
Company, London, 1903. E. P. Dutton and Company, New York. 

An interesting introductory essay by William MacDonald. 
Many illustrations by Winifred Green, somewhat in the manner of 
Kate Greenaway. 



250 


The Children s Poets 


A reprint of all the children’s poetry by Charles and Mary 
Lamb which has been discovered: Poetry for Children, 1809; 
Prince Borus, 1811; Beauty and the Beast , 1811 (attributed to 
either Charles or Mary Lamb, but perhaps not by either) ; and 
The King and Queen of Hearts, 1809. This volume should be in 
the library of all students of children’s poetry. 

The subjects of the poems are varied: incidents of child life, char¬ 
acter sketches, sermonettes on the minor moralities, and so forth 
Nearly all the poems are in the Jane and Ann Taylor style, and 
in most respects they are inferior to the work of the Taylors. 
However, the morals, though plain and blunt, are expressed with 
honesty and sincerity and good sense. Little humor. The authors, 
as might be expected, have not quite succeeded in getting the child’s 
point of view, and the style is somewhat bookish. Mr. MacDonald, 
in the introductory essay, gives the book high praise: “It differs 
from all other books of the kind, in its true moral and intellect¬ 
ual substantiality, in its matterfulness, in the body of good thinking 
and good feeling that it contains.” 

Peabody, Josephine Preston, The Book of the Little Past. 
Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, 1912. 

Poems expressing the fancies, the feelings, the intuitions and 
vague longings of a little girl—who might have been the twin 
sister of the little boy in Robert Louis Stevenson’s Garden. Ten¬ 
der, wistful, understanding hints of girl-life, expressed in a style 
at once literary and informal—in which respect also it resembles 
Stevenson’s poetry. Occasional bits of the arch humor so char¬ 
acteristic of children’s utterances. Most of the poems have the 
true musical quality. All in all, one of the finest groups of 
child poems of the last quarter-century, and superior to all others 
as a picture of the brooding, fanciful life of a little girl. 

Pyle, Katharine. Careless Jane and Other Tales. E. P. Dutton 
and Company, New York, 1902. 

Versified stories about disobedient, mischievous, careless children, 
who one and all become involved in mishaps, but escape and re¬ 
form. Mingled amusement and suggestions to “mind your tricks 
and your manners.” Clearly imitative of the Taylors’ poetry, 
even the drawings being in the early Victorian style. Language 


Bibliography 257 

prosaic and barren. Rhythm accurate, but other lyrical quali¬ 
ties lacking. These rhymes take rank with Burgess’ Goop books. 

Sage, Betty. Rhymes of Real Children. Duffield and Company, 
New York, 1914. 

Pleasant verses for the smaller children. The poet rarely leaves 
the nursery, though she writes occasionally of birds and other 
“friendly beasts.” Plenty of good wholesome fun, of the sort that 
appeals to children. As the title suggests, the scenes and moods 
are concerned with the normal, everyday life of real children; 
there is nothing ethereal or fanciful in the verses. The style is 
simple and natural, and not too babyfied. Attractive pictures of 
child life. Illustrated with several full-page drawings by Jessie 
Wilcox Smith. 


Tabb, John Bannister. Child Verses: Poems Grave and Gay. 
Small, Maynard and Company, Boston, 1899. 

Clever little poems, conceived by the poet’s fancy and written in 
a half-serious, half-humorous style. Many quaint whimsies and 
delightful puns. Flowers, birds, insects, the weather and the 
seasons, supply the themes. A dozen pretty religious pieces are 
found toward the end of the volume. These poems are suggestive 
of Stevenson and Sherman, but are much more fanciful. The 
language is natural and unaffected, full of vivid imagery. Nearly 
all the poems are extremely musical—fully up to the standard of 
Father Tabb’s beautiful verse. 

Tagore, Rabindranath. The Crescent Moon. The Macmillan 
Company, New York, 1915. 

The author’s English prose translation of his Bengali poetry. 
A charming book. The venerable Hindu poet shows a keen in¬ 
sight into the workings of a child’s mind. Some of the poems are 
obviously poems about children rather than for them, but not a 
few are written from a child’s point of view. These poems are 
mystical and full of delicate, subtle fancies. The style is the 
beautiful, simple prose of which Tagore is master; it has a naivete 
and biblical sincerity, which is irresistibly appealing. 


258 


The Children s Poets 


Watts, Isaac. Divine and Moral Songs for the Use of Children. 
John van Voorst, London, 1848. A good modern edition is pub¬ 
lished by L. C. Page and Company, Boston, but there have been 
numerous editions of this famous book. 

One of the earliest collections of verse addressed directly to 
children. For more than two hundred years, down almost to this 
last generation, it was assigned to the first rank as children’s re¬ 
ligious verse. Only two of Watts’s poems seem to be known to 
children of today—“How doth the Little Busy Bee” and “A Cradle 
Hymn”—and the first has been parodied out of its beauty, 
while the second has to be expurgated before it fits modern taste. 
Dignified poetry and genuinely religious, composed to be sung to 
hymn tunes. Watts tried to “sink the language to the level of a 
child’s understanding, and yet keep it, if possible, above contempt,” 
but it is doubtful if he succeeded in either aim. 

Wells, Carolyn. The Jingle Book. The Macmillan Company, 
New York, 1901. Illustrations by Oliver Herford. 

Jokes in verse, in Miss Wells’s happiest vein. Stories, merry 
quips and fancies, jingles, limericks, all laughter-provoking, in 
animated, jingling verse. The volume should be in the nursery 
library of every home. 

Wentworth, Patricia. A Child's Rhyme Book . G. P. Putnam’s 
Sons, New York, 1911. 

Beautiful illustrations by Grace M. Morgan. Musical settings 
are given for a few of the poems. ’ 

The themes of most of the poems in this volume are connected 
with a child’s life, activities, and thoughts indoors. Genuine poetry 
of the second class. Style rich and full of color. A touch of fun 
here and there. Little ethical content. True to the spirit and 
mood of one phase of childhood, and will prove attractive to a 
certain type of children. 


INDEX TO AUTHORS, EDITORS, TITLES, AND 
FIRST LINES OF POEMS 


Authors’ and editors’ names are given in capitals and small capitals, titles of 
poems in plain capitals and small letters, and first lines of poems in italics. 


A cat came fiddling, 29 
A child should always say what’s true, 

77 

A duck and a drake, 43 
A frisky lamb, 110 
A pocket handkerchief to hem, 113 
A toadstool comes up in a night, 108 
A was an apple-pie, 36 
Aged aged Man, An, 167 
Alas, Alack, 125 
Albatross, The, 235 
Alice in Wonderland, 156 
Alice’s Supper, 218 
Allincham, William, 180 
Alulvan, 128 

An emerald is as green as grass, 108 
Another Book of Verses for Children, 

244 

Another Good-Night, 209 
Arroar, 128 

As I was going to St. Ives, 46 
At Aunty’s House, 185 
Autumn Fires, 84 

Baa, baa, black sheep, 37 
Baby’s Dance, The, 61 
Ball, 52 

Ballads of Childhood, 255 
Bandog, The, 124 
Beautiful Things, 61 
Beggar Boy, The, 50 
Bell-Flower Tree, The, 180 
Berries, 128 
Birthday Book, The, 69 
Blake, W t lltam, 4, 8, 86-102, 111, 
117, 131, 225 
Block City, 81 

Blossoms from a Japanese Garden, 

255 

Bluebells, 126 

Boats sail on the river, 109 
Book of Famous Verse, The, 248 
Book of Nonsense, A, 139, 144 

259 


Book of the Little Past, The, 256 

Book of Verses for Children, A, 243 

Bottle Tree, The, 184 

Boy Lives on our Farm, The, 185 

Bread and Cherries, 117 

Brook, The, 181 

Brown, Abbie Farwell, 253 

Brown Thrush, The, 227 

Buckle, The, 117 

Bumblebee, The, 185 

Burgess, Gelett, 253 

Bye, Baby bunting, 19 

Cambridge Book of Poetry for Young 
People, 242 

Careless Jane and Other Tales, 256 
Carroll, accept the heartfelt thanks, 
164 

Carroll, Lewis, 4, 8, 111, 156-175, 
212, 222 

Cary, Alice and Phcebe, 254 
Cawein, Madison, 254 
Chatterbox, The, 53 
Chicken, 123 

Child-Life in Poetry, 220, 250 
Child Verses, 257 
Child World, The, 196 
Children’s Garland from the Best 
Poets, The, 247 

Children’s Treasury of English Song, 
246 

Child’s Day, A, 117, 133 
Child’s Garden of Verses, A, 5, 69, 
111, 118, 198 

Child’s Rhyme-Book, A, 258 

Chisholm, Louey, (editor), 241 

Christmas Carol, A, 105, 114 

Christmas Treasures, 191, 192 

Cock a doodle doo, 37 

Contented John, 53 

Cook, Agnes Spofford, (editor), 245 

Corn-Popper, The, 211 

Cow, The, 51, 78 


The Children's Poets 


2(>0 

Cradle Song, 237 
Cradle Song, A, 99 
Crazy Robert, 53 
Crescent Moon, The, 257 

Darling little cousin, 112 
Days Gone By, The, 180 
De La Mare, Walter, 117-137 
Dead Babe, The, 191 
Dedication, The, 165 
Diddle, diddle, dumpling, 20, 27 
Diddledy, diddledy, dumtee, 29 
Dinkey Bird, The, 184 
Dismal Dole of the Doodledoo, The, 
184 

Divine and Moral Songs, 5, 258 
Dodge, Mary Mapes, 254, 255 
Dong with a Luminous Nose, The, 150 
Down-Adown-Derry, 117, 133 
Duck and the Kangaroo, The, 152 
Duel, The, 184 

Earls, Michael, 255 
Echoes, 158 

Echoing Green, The, 92 
Eleanor, 105 

Face in the Tongs, A, 222 
Fairies Dancing, The, 128 
Fenollosa, Mary, 255 
Field, Eugene, 129, 176-196 
Finery, 64 

Fire-Hangbird’s Nest, The, 180 
First Tooth, The, 211 
Five^-Minute Stories, 206 
Flowers, The, 82 
Fly away, fly away, 113 
Fly-away Horse, The, 184 
For a Little Girl, 53 
Foreboding, 131 
From a Railway Carriage, 75 
Full Moon, 120 
Funeral, The, 123 
/ 

Gage, The, 128 

Gay go up, 28, 38 

Geographi, 216 

Giant and the Star, The, 254 

Goblin Market, 5, 104 

Golden-Rod, The, 202 

Golden Numbers, 251 


Golden Staircase, The, 241 
Goldsmith, Oliver, (editor), 13, 15, 
18 

Good and Bad Children, 77 
Good-Night, 51 

Goops, and How to Be Them. 253 
Goosey, goosey, gander, 30, 36 
Grahame, Kenneth, (editor), 242 
Grandmother to her Grandson, 239 
Greenaway, Kate, (editor and illus¬ 
trator), 34, 60, 69 
Grim, 135 

Growing in the vale, 109 

Halliwell, James O. (editor), 34 
Hand-Post, The, 51 
Handy, spandy, 27. 43 
Hark, hark, 35 
Haunted, 128 
Heetum, peetum, 29 
Henley, William Ernest, (editor), 
242 

Here comes a candle, 39 
Hey diddle diddle, 19, 27, 29 
Hiawatha’s Photographing, 158 
Hickery, dickery, dock, 27 
Hickery, dickery, six and seven, 44 
Hickety, pickety, 27, 29 
Hide and Seek, 134 
Higgledy, piggledy, 39 
Home Book of Verse for Young Folks, 
The, 249 

Honey Robbers, The, 128 
Hope is like a harebell, 104, 116 
Horn, The, 117 
Horseman. The, 121 
How doth the little busy bee, 159, 
258 

How doth the little crocodile , 159 
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear, 144 
Hunting of the Snark, The, 162 
Huntsmen, The, 134 
Hurdy-Gurdy, The, 206 
Hurt no living thing, 206 
Hymns for Infant Minds, 50 

I had a little nut tree, 30 
/ had four brothers, 27 
/ saw an old woman, 23. 25 
I saw three witches, 128 
/ went up one pair of stairs, 47 


Index 


261 


Idle Boy, The, 53 
If a pig wore a wig, 111 
If all were rain, 116 
If I have faltered, 79 
If I were a sunbeam, 226 
If you sneeze on Monday, 47 
I’ll tell you a story, 28 
In My Nursery, 206 
In the Closet, 211 
In the Firelight, 180 
In the meadow, 115 
In the Tree-Top, 228 
Infant Joy, 98 

Ingpen, Roger, (editor), 243 
Inscription For My Little Son’s Silver 
Plate, 195 
Intery, mintery, 42 
Introduction, 97 
Isle of Lone, 128 

Jabberwocky, 160 
Jack and Jill, 35 
Jack be nimble, 46 
Jack Frost, 238 
Jack in the pulpit, 42 
Jingle, 218 

Jingle Book, The, 258 
Johnny’s By-low Song, 210 
Jumblies, The, 147 
Jumbo Jee, 217 
Just ’fore Christmas, 187 

Keble, John, 4 
Krinken, 191 

Lamb, Charles and Mary, 2, 194, 
255 

Lamb, The, 97 
Lamplighter, The, 81 
Land of Counterpane, The, 71 
Land of Nod, The, 71 
Land of Story-Books, The, 76 
Lang, Andrew, (editor), 33 
Larcom, Lucy, 220-230 
Laughable Lyrics, 140 
Laughing Song, 92 
Lavender blue, 36 

Lear, Edward, 4, 8, 111, 138-155, 212 
Leave not, my soul, 78 
Limitations of Youth, The, 187 


Listening Child, The, 250 
Little Ann, 60 

Little-Book of Western Verse, A, 177 
Little Bo-peep, 42 

Little boy blue, (Mother Goose), 31, 
35 

Little Boy Blue, (Eugene Field), 177, 
191 

Little Boy Found, The, 100 
Little Boy Lost, The. 100 
Little vCavalier, A, 222 
Little David, 193 
Little Dicky Dilver, 42 
Little Gnome, The, 214 
Little Green Orchard, The, 127 
Little Gustava, 236 
Little Homer’s Slate, 191 
Little Jack Horner, 20 
Little Lark, The, 66 
Little Nanny Etticoat, 31 
Little Orphan! Annie, 182 
Little Tommy Tucker, 20 
Lollyby, Lolly, Lollyby, 187 
London Bridge, 20 
Long Ago, 180 
Looking-Glass River, 72 
Lost Shoe, The, 125 
Love Songs of Childhood, 177 
Lucas, Edward Verrall, (editor). 
244 

Lugubrious Whing-Whang, The, 183 

Lullaby, A, 237 

Lullaby, oh, lullaby, 106 

Lyra Heroica, 242 

Lyttel Boy, The, 187 

McMurry, Lida Brown, (editor), 245 
Manyforkia Spoonfolia, 138 
Mary, Mary, quite contrary, 46 
Massacre, The, 118 
May, 199 

Meddlesome Matty, 51 
Mediaeval Eventide Song, 187 
Memories of Childhood, 117 
Mischief, 54 
Mix a pancake, 110 
Mocking Fairy, The, 128 
Moonshine, 222 
More Five-Minutes Stories, 206 
More Nonsense, 140 


262 


The Childrens Poets 


Mother Goose, 8, 11-48, 111, 163, 

212 

Mother Hubbard, 20 
Muskingum Valley, The, 180 
My first is snapping, 40 
My Mother, 51, 62 
My Shadow, 80 

Needles and pins, 46 
Night, 94 

Nine little Goblins, The, 183 
Nonsense Book, 138 
Nonsense Cookery, 138 
Nonsense Songs, 140 
Nurse’s Song, 88, 89 

Off the Ground, 125 
Ogre, The, 128 

Olcott, Frances Jenkins, (editor), 

245 

Old Aunt Mary’s, 180 
Old King Cole, 16 
Old Mother Hubbard, 40 
Old Sarah, 53 

Old Stone House, The, 126, 128 
Old Susan, 53 

Old Swimming Hole, The, 180 
Old Trundle-Bed, The, 180 
Old Woman and the Sixpence, The, 26 
Old Woman in the Basket, The, 30 
On Another’s Sorrow, 101 
Once I longed to be a poet, 213 
Once in my life, 42 
One misty, moisty morning, 26 
One Thousand Poems for Children, 
243 

One to make ready, 48 

One, two, buckle my shoe, 39 

Open Secret, An, 238 

Original Poems, 50, 58 

Our Boyhood Haunts, 180 

Our Children’s Songs, 246 

Our Whippings, 180 

Owl and the Pussy-Cat, The, 143 

Palgrave, Francis Turner, (editor), 

246 

Party, A, 211 

Pat-a-cakc, pat-a-cake, 26 
Patmore, Coventry, (editor), 247 


Peabody, Joseph:ne Preston, 256 

Peacock Pie, 119, 132 

Pease porridge hot, 23 

Pet Coon, The, 185 

Phantom, The, 128 

Phrisky Phrog, The, 208 

Piccolo, The, 206 

Pig that Flew up in the Air, 30 

Pinafore Palace, 252 

Pobble who has no Toes, The, 154 

Pocketful of Posies, A, 253 

Poems and Rhymes, 249 

Poems for Children, 254 

Poetry for Children, 255 

Poppy, The, 56 

Posy Ring, The, 251 

Prefatory Poem, The, 166 

Pretty Thing, A, 66 

Princess Ming, The, 184 

Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, 45 

Pyle, Katherine, 256 

Quangle Wangle’s Hat, The, 146 
Quartette, The, 117 

Raggedy Man, The, 185 
Rain, 81 

Rainbow, The, 123 
Rainbow Gold, 249 
Red-Top and Timothy, 224 
Repplier, Agnes, (editor), 248 
Reverie, 130 
Rhymes and Jingles, 254 
Rhymes for the Nursery, 50 
Rhymes of Real Children, 257 
Richards, Laura Elizabeth, 96, 205- 
219, 222 

Ride a cock-horse, 43 
Ride-by-Nights, The, 128 
Riley, James Whitcomp, 4, 129, 
176-196 

Rivulet, The, 223 
Rompty-iddity, 48 

Rossetti, Christina, 4, 5, 8, 96, 103- 
116, 121, 222, 225 
Royal Princess, A, 105 
Ruin, The, 128 
Runaway Boy, The, 185 
Rushes in a watery place, 110 


Index 


263 


•Sage, Betty, 257 

Sa.ntsbury, George, (editor), 33 
Sam, 126 

Second Book of Verse, A, 177 
Seem’ Things at Night, 184, 137 
Shepherd, The, 101 
Sherman, Frank Dempster, 197-204, 
222 

Silver, 135 

Silver Penny, The, 122 
Simple Simon, 45 
Sing-Song, 5, 103 

Sing a song of sixpence, 19, 24, 26, 35 
Sing me a song , 107 
Sleepyhead, 125 
Slumber-Song, 190 

Smith, Nora Archibald, (editor), 
251, 252 

Snail , snail, come out of your hole , 44 
Snowdrop, The, 64 
Snow Song, 200 
Some One, 126 
Songs of Childhood, 117 
Songs of Experience, 86 
Songs of Innocence, 86, 111 
Songs of the Tree-Top and Meadow, 
245 

Sooeep, 117 

Spring, (Celia Thaxter), 235 
Spring, (William Blake), 98 
Squirt-Gun, The, 185 
Star, The, 63 

Stevenson, Burton Egbert, (editor), 
249 

Stevenson, Robert Louis, 4, 5, 8, 
68-85, 96, 111, 118 
Stories and Poems for Children, 232 
Story-Telling Poems, 245 
Strange, Wild Song, A, 170 
Strike a flint, 116 
Sugar-Plum Tree, The, 184 
Summer, 105 
Summer Evening, 123 
Supper, The, 136 
Swinging on a Birch Tree, 227 
Sylvie and Bruno, 162 

Tabb, John Banntster, 203, 257 
Table and the Chair, The, 145 
Taffy was a Welshman, 45 


Tagore, Rabindranath, 257 
Tale of the Flimflam, The, 184 
Tappan, Eva March, (editor), 249 
Taylor, Jane and Ann, 4, 49-67, 
108, 194, 236 

Teasdale, Sara, (editor), 249 
Thacher, Lucy, (editor), 250 
Thaxter, Celia, 231-239 
The horses of the sea, 116 
The lily has a smooth stalk, 113 
There was a crooked man, 26, 45 
There was a Young Lady whose chin, 
141 

There was an Old Man in a tree, 140 
There was an Old Man of Thames - 
Ditton, 142 

There was an Old Man of the Nile, 
141 

There was an Old Man who said, 141 
There was an Old Man with a beard, 
141 

There was an Old Person of Dean, 
141 

There was an Old Person whose hab¬ 
its, 141 

There was an old woman, 28, 44, 47 

There was an owl, 44 

There were two blackbirds, 44 

Thirty days hath September, 19 

Thirty white horses, 31 

Three blind mice, 19 

Through Sleepy-Land, 190 

Through the Looking Glass, 156 

Tiger, The, 95 

To a Little Brook, 180 

To Alison Cunningham, 80 

To Any Reader, 85 

To Auntie, 83 

To market ride the gentlemen, 43 
To the Looking-Glass World, 158 
Tom he was a piper s son, 46 
Travel, 83 

Twinkle, twinkle, little star, 51 
Twist me a crown of wild flowers, 
104 

Uncareful Cow, The, 138 

Under the wide and starry sky, 79 

Universe, The, 137 

Up and down Old Brandywine, 180 


2 64 


The Children s Poets 


-?// ' 




Valentines to my Mother, 105 
Vaughan, Henry, 88, 89, 180 
Violet, The, 51, 57 
Vulgar Little Lady, The, 65 

Waitin’ for the Cat to Die, 180 
Walrus and the Carpenter, The, 172 
Watts, Isaac, 87, 258 
Way to be Happy, The, 55 
Wells, Carolyn, 258 
Welsh, Charles, (editor), 33 
Wentworth, Patr cia, 258 
What are little boys made of, 48 
What does the bee do, 111 
When Bessie Died, 193 
When l zvas a bachelor, 44 
When I was a Boy, 180 
When Life is Young, 255 


Where Go the Boats, 74 
White Rabbit’s Verses, The, 161 
Whittier, John Greenleaf, (editor), 
220, 250 

Who has seen the wind, 116 
Who Santy Clause Wuz, 180 
Wiggin, Kate Douglas, (editor), 
251, 252 

Window, The, 120 

Windy Nights, 73 

With Trumpet and Drum, 177 

Wordsworth, Will t am, 4, 87, 83 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod, 189 

You are old, Father William, 158, 
169 

Young Night Thought, 70 


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